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Life  on  the  Stage 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   FIRST  Pagc 

I  am  Born  I 


CHAPTER   SECOND 

Beginning  Early,  I  Learn  Love,  Fear,  and  Hunger  — 
I  Become  Acquainted  with  Letters,  and  Alas  !  I 
Lose  One  of  my  Two  Illusions  ...  3 


CHAPTER   THIRD 

I  Enter  a  New  World  —  I  Know  a  New  Hunger 

and  we  Return  to  Cleveland       ....       9 


CHAPTER   FOURTH 

I  am  Led  into  the  Theatre  —  I  Attend  Rehearsals  — 
I  am  Made  Acquainted  with  the  Vagaries  of 
Tights  .  . 17 

CHAPTER   FIFTH 

I  Receive  my  First  Salary  —  I  am  Engaged  for  the 

Coming  Season          ......     25 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   SIXTH 

Page 

The  Regular  Season  Opens  —  I  have  a  Small  Part  to 
Play  —  I  am  among  Lovers  of  Shakespeare  —  I 
too  Stand  at  his  Knee  and  Fall  under  the  Charm  .  32 

CHAPTER   SEVENTH 

I  find  I  am  in  a  "  Family  Theatre "  —  I  Fare 
Forth  away  from  my  Mother,  and  in  Colum- 
bus I  Shelter  under  the  wing  of  Mrs.  Bradshaw  .  39 

CHAPTER    EIGHTH 

I  Display  my  New  Knowledge  —  I  Return  to  Cleve- 
land to  Face  my  First  Theatrical  Vacation, 
and  I  Know  the  very  Tragedy  of  Littleness  .  48 

CHAPTER   NINTH 

The  Season  Reopens  —  I  meet  the  Yellow  Breeches 
and  become  a  Utility  Man  —  Mr.  Murdock  Es- 
capes Fits  and  my  "  Luck  "  Proves  to  be  Extra 
Work 57 

CHAPTER   TENTH 

With  Mr.  Dan.  Setchell  I  Win  Applause  —  A 
Strange  Experience  comes  to  Me  —  I  Know 
Both  Fear  and  Ambition  —  The  Actress  is  Born 
at  Last  ,  ...  68 


CONTENTS  ix 

CHAPTER   ELEVENTH 

Page 

My  Promiscuous  Reading  wins  me  a  Glass  of  Soda  — 
The  Stage  takes  up  my  Education  and  Leads  me 
through  Many  Pleasant  Places  .  .  .  -73 

CHAPTER   TWELFTH 

The  Peter  Richings'  Engagement  brings  me  my 
First  Taste  of  Slander — Anent  the  Splendor  of 
my  Wardrobe,  also  my  First  Newspaper  No- 
tice   80 

CHAPTER   THIRTEENTH 

Mr.  Roberts  Refers  to  Me  as  "That  Young 
Woman,"  to  My  Great  Joy  —  I  Issue  the  "Clara 
Code'* — -I  Receive  my  First  Offer  of  Marriage  .  86 

CHAPTER   FOURTEENTH 

Mr.  Wilkes  Booth  comes  to  us,  the  whole  Sex 
Loves  him  —  Mr.  Ellsler  Compares  him  to  his 
Great  Father  —  Our  Grief  and  Horror  over  the 
Awful  Tragedy  at  Washington  .  .  •  97 

CHAPTER   FIFTEENTH 

Mr.  R.  E.  J.  Miles  —  His  two  Horses  and  our 
Woful  Experience  with  the  Substitute  "  Wild 
Horse  of  Tartary"  ......  109 


x  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   SIXTEENTH 

Page 

I  perform  a  Remarkable  Feat,  I  Study  King  Charle* 
in  One  Afternoon  and  Play  Without  a  Re- 
hearsal —  Mrs.  D.  P.  Bowers  makes  Odd  Revela- 
tion    ,  .  119 

CHAPTER   SEVENTEENTH 

Through  Devotion  to  my  Friend,  I  Jeopardize  my 
Reputation  —  I  Own  a  Baby  on  Shares  —  Miss 
Western's  Pathetic  Speech  .  .  .  .124 

CHAPTER   EIGHTEENTH 

Mr.  Charles  W.  Couldock  —  His  Daughter  Eliza  and 

his  Many  Peculiarities       .          .          .          .          .129 

CHAPTER   NINETEENTH 

I  Come  to  a  Turning- Point  in  my  Dramatic  Life  — 
I  play  my  First  Crying  Part  with  Miss  Sallie  St. 
Clair  .  .  .  .  .  .  ,  .  139 

CHAPTER   TWENTIETH 

I  have  to  pass  through  Bitter  Humiliation  to  win 
High  Encomiums  from  Herr  Bandmann ;  while 
Edwin  Booth's  Kindness  Fills  the  Theatre  with 
Pink  Clouds,  and  I  Float  Thereon  .  .  .155 


CONTENTS  xi 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-FIRST  Page 

I  Digress,  but  I  Return  to  the  Columbus  Engagement 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Kean  —  Their  Peculiar- 
ities and  their  Work  .  .  .  .  .163 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-SECOND 

I    hear   Mrs.    Kean's    Story  of  Wolsey's    Robe  — I 

laugh  at  an  Extravagantly  Kind  Prophecy    .          .   171 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-THIRD 

Mr.  E.  L.  Davenport,  his  Interference,  his  Lecture 
on  Stage  Business,  his  Error  of  Memory  or  too 
Powerful  Imagination  —  Why  I  remain  a  Dra- 
matic Old  Slipper  —  Contemptuous  Words  arouse 
in  me  a  Dogged  Determination  to  become  a  Lead- 
ing Woman  before  leaving  Cleveland  .  .180 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-FOURTH 

I  recall  the  Popularity  and  too  early  Death  of  Edwin 

Adams    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .   195 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-FIFTH 

I  See  an  Actress  Dethroned  —  I  make  myself  a  Prom- 
ise, for  the  World  does  Move  .  •  •  .201 


xii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-SIXTH 

Page 

Mr.  Lawrence  Barrett  the   Brilliant  and  his  Brother 

Joseph  the  Unfortunate     .          .          .          .          .205 

CHAPTER    TWENTY-SEVENTH 

I  Play  "  Marie  "  to  Oblige  —  Mr.  Barrett's  Remark- 
able Call  —  Did  I  Receive  a  Message  from  the 
Dying  or  the  Dead  ? 215 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-EIGHTH 

I  accept  an  Engagement  with  Mr.  Macaulay  for  Cin- 
cinnati as  Leading  Lady  —  My  Adieus  to  Cleve- 
land—  Mr.  Ellsler  Presents  Me  with  a  Watch  .  227 

CHAPTER   TWENTY-NINTH 

My  first  Humiliating  Experience  in  Cincinnati  is  Fol- 
lowed by  a  Successful  Appearance  —  I  Make  the 
Acquaintance  of  the  Enthusiastic  Navoni  .  .  238 

CHAPTER   THIRTIETH 

New  York  City  is  Suggested  to  Me  by  Mr.  Worth- 
ington  and  Mr.  Johnson  —  Mr.  Ellsler's  Mild  As- 
sistance —  I  Journey  to  New  York,  and  Return  to 
Cincinnati  with  Signed  Contract  from  Mr.  Daly  .  248 


CONTENTS  xiii 

CHAPTER   THIRTY-FIRST  Page 

John  Cockerill  and  our  Eccentric  Engagement  —  I 
Play  a  Summer  Season  at  Halifax  —  Then  to  New 
York,  and  to  House-Keeping  at  Last .  .  .  259 

CHAPTER   THIRTY-SECOND 

I  Recall  Mr.  John  E.  Owens,  and  How  He  "  Settled 

my  Hash "       .  ....  268 

CHAPTER   THIRTY-THIRD 

From  the  "  Wild  West "  I  Enter  the  Eastern  "  Parlor 
of  Home  Comedy  "  - 1  Make  my  First  Appear- 
ance in  "  Man  and  Wife  "  .  .  .  .276 

CHAPTER   THIRTY-FOURTH 

I  Rehearse  Endlessly  —  I  Grow  Sick  with  Dread  —  I 

Meet  with  Success  in  Anne  Sylvester  .          .          .287 

CHAPTER   THIRTY-FIFTH 

I  Am  Accepted  by  the  Company  —  I  am  Warned 
against  Mr.  Fisk — I  Have  an  Odd  Encounter 
with  Mr.  Gould 300 

CHAPTER   THIRTY-SIXTH 

A  Search  for  Tears  —  I  Am  Punished  in  "  Saratoga  " 
for  the  Success  of  "  Man  and  Wife  "  —  I  Win 
Mr.  Daly's  Confidence  —  We  Become  Friends  .  315 


xiv  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   THIRTY-SEVENTH 

Page 

A  Study  of  Stage-Management  —  I  Am  Tricked  into 

Signing  a  New  Contract    .          .          .          .          .326 

CHAPTER   THIRTY-EIGHTH 

I  Go  to  the  Sea-shore  —  The  Search  for  a  "Scar"  — 
I  Make  a  Study  of  Insanity,  and  Meet  with  Suc- 
cess in  "  L'  Article  47  "  .  .  .  .  .  333 

CHAPTER   THIRTY-NINTH 

I  Am  too  Dull  to  Understand  a  Premonition  —  By 
Mr.  Daly's  Side  I  See  the  Destruction  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Theatre  by  Fire  .  .  .  -345 

CHAPTER   FORTIETH 

We  Become  "  Barn-stormers,"  and  Return  to  Open 
the  New  Theatre  —  Our  Astonishing  Misunder- 
standing of  "  Alixe,"  which  Proves  a  Great 
Triumph  .  .  .  .  .  .  .352 

CHAPTER   FORTY-FIRST 

Trouble  about  Obnoxious  Lines  in  "  Madeline  Morel " 

—  Mr.    Daly's    Manipulation   of   Father  X :    In 

Spite  of   our  Anxiety   the  Audience    accepts  the 

Situation  and  the  Play  —  Mr.  Daly  gives  me  the 

smallest  Dog  in  New  York         .          .          .          -367 


CONTENTS  xv 

CHAPTER   FORTY-SECOND 

Page 

I  am  Engaged  to  Star  part  of  the  Season  —  Mr.  Daly 
Breaks  his  Contract  —  I  Leave  him  and  under 
Threat  of  Injunction  —  I  meet  Mr.  Palmer  and 
make  Contract  and  appear  at  the  Union  Square  in 
the  "  Wicked  World  " 375 

CHAPTER   FORTY-THIRD 

We  Give  a  Charity  Performance  of  "  Camille,"  and 
Are  Struck  with  Amazement  at  our  Success  —  Mr. 
Palmer  Takes  the  Cue  and  Produces  "  Camille  " 
for  Me  at  the  Union  Square  .  .  .  .382 

CHAPTER   FORTY-FOURTH 

u  Miss  Multon  "  Put  in  Rehearsal  —  Our  Squabble 
over  the  Manner  of  her  Death  —  Great  Success 
of  the  Play  —  Mr.  Palmer's  Pride  in  it  —  My 
Au  Revoir  .......  390 


LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 


CHAPTER  FIRST 

. ' .»  «        '      •  - 

I  am  Born. 

IF  this  simple  tale  is  to  be  told  at  all,  it  may  as  well  be- 
gin at  the  beginning  and  in  the  good  old-fashioned  and 
best  of  all  ways  —  thus :  Once  upon  a  time  in  the  Cana- 
dian city  of  Toronto,  on  the  I7th  of  March,  the  sun  rose 
bright  and  clear  —  which  was  a  most  surprising  thing  for 
the  sun  to  do  on  St.  Patrick's  Day,  but  while  the  people 
were  yet  wondering  over  it  the  sunlight  disappeared, 
clouds  of  dull  gray  spread  themselves  evenly  over  the 
sky,  and  then  the  snow  fell  —  fell  fast  and  furious, 
quickly  whitening  the  streets  and  house-tops,  softly  lin- 
ing every  hollow,  and  was  piling  little  cushions  on  top 
of  all  the  hitching-posts,  when  the  flakes  grew  larger, 
wetter,  farther  apart,  and  after  a  little  hesitation  turned 
to  rain  —  a  sort  of  walk-trot-gallop  rain,  which  wound 
up  with  one  vivid  flash  of  lightning  and  a  clap  of  thunder 
that  fairly  shook  the  city. 

Now  the  Irish,  being  a  brave  people  and  semi-am- 
phibious, pay  no  heed  to  wet  weather.  Usually  all  the 
Hibernians  residing  in  a  city  divide  themselves  into  two 
bodies  on  St.  Patrick's  Day,  the  ones  who  parade  and 
the  ones  who  follow  the  parade;  but  on  this  occasion 
they  divided  themselves  into  three  bodies  —  the  men  who 
paraded,  the  men  and  women  who  followed  the  parade, 
and  the  Orangemen  who  made  things  pleasant  for  both 
parties. 

As  the  out-of-time,  out-of-tune  band  turned  into  a  quiet 
cross-street  to  lead  its  following  green-bannered  host  to 


2  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

a  broader  one,  the  first  brick  was  thrown  —  probably  by 
a  woman,  as  it  hit  no  one,  but  metaphorically  it  knocked 
the  chip  off  of  the  shoulder  of  every  child  of  Erin.  Down 
fell  the  banners,  up  went  the  fists!  Orange  and  Green 
were  at  each  other  tooth  and  nail!  Hats  from  prehis- 
toric ages  s.de  by  side  with  modern  beavers  scarcely  fifty 
years  old  received  the  hurled  brick-bat  and  went  down 
together ! 

The  tand ; reached  the  broad  avenue  alone,  and  looked 
back  to  see  the  short  street  a-sway  with  struggling  men, 
while  women  holding  their  bedraggled  petticoats  up,  their 
bonnets  hanging  down  their  backs  by  green  ribbon  ties, 
hovered  about  the  edges  of  the  crowd,  making  predatory 
dashes  now  and  then  to  scratch  a  face  or  rescue  some 
precious  hat  from  the  melee,  meanwhile  inciting  the  men 
to  madness  by  their  fierce  cries  —  and  in  a  quiet  house, 
in  the  very  midst  of  this  riot  —  just  before  the  constabu- 
lary charged  the  crowd  —  I  was  born.  I  don't  know,  of 
course,  whether  I  was  really  intended  from  the  first  for 
that  house,  or  whether  the  stork  became  so  frightened 
at  the  row  in  the  street  that  he  just  dropped  me  from 
sheer  inability  to  carry  me  any  farther  —  anyway,  I  came 
to  a  house  where  trouble  and  poverty  had  preceded  me, 
and,  worse  than  both  these  put  together  —  treachery. 

Still,  I  accepted  the  situation  with  indifference.  That 
the  cupboard  barely  escaped  absolute  emptiness  gave  me 
no  anxiety,  as  I  had  no  teeth  anyway.  As  a  gentleman 
with  a  medicine-case  in  his  hand  was  leaving  the  house  he 
paused  a  moment  for  the  slavey  to  finish  washing  away  a 
pool  of  blood  from  the  bottom  step  —  and  then  there  came 
that  startling  clap  of  thunder.  Brand  new  as  I  was  to 
this  world  and  its  ways,  I  entered  my  protest  at  once 
with  such  force  and  evident  wrath  that  the  doctor  down- 
stairs exclaimed :  "  Our  young  lady  has  temper  as  well 
as  a  good  pair  of  lungs !  "  and  went  on  his  way  laughing. 

And  so  on  that  St.  Patrick's  Day  of  sunshine,  snow, 
and  rain,  of  riot  and  bloodshed,  in  trouble  and  poverty 
—  I  was  born. 


CHAPTER   SECOND 

Beginning  Early,  I  Learn  Love,  Fear,  and  Hunger — I 
Become  Acquainted  with  Letters,  and  Alas  !  I  Lose 
One  of  my  Two  Illusions. 

OF  the  Days  of  St.  Patrick  that  followed,  not  one 
found  me  in  the  city  of  my  birth  —  indeed,  six 
months  completed  my  period  of  existence  in  the 
Dominion,  and  I  have  known  it  no  more. 

Some  may  think  it  strange  that  I  mention  these  early 
years  at  all,  but  the  reason  for  such  mention  will  appear 
later  on.  Looking  back  at  them,  they  seem  to  divide  them- 
selves into  groups  of  four  years  each.  During  the  first 
four,  my  time  was  principally  spent  in  growing  and  learn- 
ing to  keep  out  of  people's  way.  I  acquired  some  other 
knowledge,  too,  and  little  child  as  I  was,  I  knew  fear  long 
before  I  knew  the  thing  that  frightened  me.  I  knew  that 
love  for  my  mother  which  was  to  become  the  passion  of 
my  life,  and  I  also  knew  hunger.  But  the  fear  was  harder 
to  endure  than  the  hunger  —  it  was  so  vague,  yet  so  all- 
encompassing. 

We  had  to  flit  so  often  —  suddenly,  noiselessly.  Often 
I  was  gently  roused  from  my  sleep  at  night  and  hastily 
dressed  —  sometimes  simply  wrapped  up  without  being 
dressed,  and  carried  through  the  dark  to  some  other 
place  of  refuge,  from  —  what  ?  When  I  went  out  into 
the  main  business  streets  I  had  a  tormenting  barege  veil 
over  my  face  that  would  not  let  me  see  half  the  pretty 
things  in  the  shop  windows,  and  I  was  quick  to  notice 
that  no  other  little  girl  had  a  veil  on.  Next  I  remarked 
that  if  a  strange  lady  spoke  to  me  my  mother  seemed 
pleased  —  but  if  a  man  noticed  me  she  was  not  pleased, 
and  once  when  a  big  man  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led 


4  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

me  to  a  candy  store  for  some  candy  she  was  as  white 
as  could  be  and  so  angry  she  frightened  me,  and  she 
promised  me  a  severe  punishment  if  I  ever,  ever  went  one 
step  with  a  strange  man  again.  And  so  my  fear  began 
to  take  the  form  of  a  man,  of  a  big,  smiling  man  —  for 
my  mother  always  asked,  when  I  reported  that  a  stranger 
had  spoken  to  me,  if  he  was  big  and  smiling. 

I  had  known  the  sensation  of  hunger  long  before  I 
knew  the  word  that  expressed  it,  and  I  often  pressed  my 
hands  over  my  small  empty  stomach,  and  cried  and  pulled 
at  my  mother's  dress  skirt.  If  there  was  anything  at  all 
to  give  I  received  it,  but  sometimes  there  was  absolutely 
nothing  but  a  drink  of  water  to  offer,  which  checked  the 
gnawing  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  at  those  times  there 
was  a  tightening  of  my  mother's  trembling  lips,  and  a 
straight  up  and  down  wrinkle  between  her  brows,  that 
I  grew  to  know,  and  when  I  saw  that  look  on  her  face  I 
could  not  ask  for  anything  more  than  "  a  dwink,  please." 

As  an  illustration  of  her  almost  savage  pride  and  hon- 
esty :  I  one  day  saw  a  woman  in  front  of  the  house  buy- 
ing some  potatoes.  I  knew  that  potatoes  cooked  were 
very  comforting  to  empty  stomachs.  One  or  two  of  them 
fell  to  the  street  during  the  measuring  and  I  picked  one  up, 
and,  fairly  wild  with  delight,  I  scrambled  up  the  stairs 
with  it.  But  my  mother  was  angry  through  and  through. 

"  Who  gave  it  to  you  ?  "  she  demanded. 

I  explained  with  a  trembling  voice :  "  I  des*  founded 
it  on  the  very  ground  —  and  I'se  so  hungry !  " 

But  hungry  or  not  hungry,  I  had  to  take  the  potato 
back :  "  Nothing  in  the  world  could  be  taken  without  ask- 
ing—  that  was  stealing  —  and  she  was  the  only  person 
in  the  world  I  had  a  right  to  ask  anything  of !  " 

It  was  a  bitter  lesson,  and  was  rendered  more  so  by  the 
fact  that  when  I  carried  the  tear-bathed  potato  back  to 
the  street  and  laid  it  down,  neither  the  woman  who  bought 
nor  the  man  who  sold  was  in  sight  —  and,  dear  Heaven ! 
I  could  almost  have  eaten  it  raw. 

But  I  was  learning  obedience  and  self-respect;  more 


FLEEING   FROM   MY   FATHER         5 

than  that,  I  was  already  acquiring  one  of  the  necessary 
qualities  for  an  actress  —  the  power  of  close  observation. 

The  next  four  years  (the  second  group)  were  the  hard- 
est to  endure  of  them  all.  True,  I  now  had  sufficient  food 
and  warmth,  since  my  mother  had  given  up  sewing  for 
shops  —  which  kept  us  nearly  always  hungry  —  and  had 
found  other  occupations.  But  the  great  object  of  both 
our  lives  was  to  be  together,  and  there  are  few  people 
who  are  willing  to  employ  a  woman  who  has  with  her  a 
child.  And  if  her  services  are  accepted,  even  at  a  reduced 
salary,  it  is  necessary  for  that  child  to  be  as  far  as  pos- 
sible neither  seen  nor  heard.  Therefore  until  I  was  old 
enough  to  be  admitted  into  a  public  school  I  never  knew 
another  child  —  I  never  played  with  any  living  creature 
save  a  remarkable  cat,  that  seemed  to  have  claws  all  over 
her,  and  in  my  fixed  determination  to  trace  her  purr  and 
find  out  where  it  came  from,  she  buried  those  claws  to 
the  very  last  one  in  my  fat,  investigating  little  hands. 

Meantime  my  "  fear  "  had  assumed  the  shape  and  sub- 
stance of  a  man,  a  man  who  bore  a  name  that  should  have 
been  loved  and  honored  above  all  others,  for  this  "  bogey  " 
of  my  baby  days  —  this  nightmare  and  dread — was  my 
own  father.  When  my  mother  had  discovered  his  treach- 
ery—  which  had  not  hesitated  to  boldly  face  the  very 
altar  —  she  took  her  child  and  fled  from  him,  assuming 
her  mother's  maiden  name  as  a  disguise.  But  go  where 
she  would,  he  followed  and  made  scenes.  Finally,  under- 
standing that  she  was  not  to  be  won  back  by  sophistries, 
he  offered  to  leave  her  in  peace  if  she  would  give  the 
child  to  him.  And  when  that  offer  was  indignantly  re- 
jected, he  pleasantly  informed  her  that  he  would  make 
life  a  curse  to  her  until  she  gave  me  up,  and  that  by  fair 
means  or  by  foul  he  would  surely  obtain  possession  of  me. 
Once  he  did  kidnap  me,  but  my  mother  had  found  friends 
by  that  time,  and  their  pursuit  was  so  swift  and  unex- 
pected that  he  had  to  abandon  me. 

So,  he  who  should  have  been  the  defender  and  support 
of  my  mother  —  whose  arms  should  have  been  our  shel- 


6  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

ter  from  the  world  —  the  big,  smiling  French-Canadian 
father  —  became  instead  our  terror  and  our  dread.  There- 
fore when  my  mother  served  in  varying  capacities  in  other 
people's  homes,  and  I  had  to  efface  myself  as  nearly  as 
possible,  I  dared  not  even  go  out  to  walk  a  little,  so  great 
was  my  mother's  fear. 

It  seems  odd,  but  in  spite  of  my  far-reaching  memory, 
I  cannot  remember  when  I  learned  to  read.  I  can  recall 
but  one  tiny  incident  relating  to  the  subject  of  learning. 
I  stood  upon  a  chair  and  while  my  hair  was  brushed  and 
braided  I  spelled  my  words,  and  I  had  my  ears  boxed 
—  a  custom  considered  criminal  in  these  better  days  —  be- 
cause, having  successfully  spelled  "  elephant,"  I  came  to 
grief  over  "  mouse,"  as,  according  to  my  judgment, 
m_o_w-s  filled  all  the  requirements  of  the  case.  I  remem- 
ber, too,  that  the  punishment  made  me  afraid  to  ask  what 
"  elephant "  meant ;  but  I  received  the  impression  that  it 
was  some  sort  of  a  public  building. 

However,  when  I  was  six  years  old  I  joyfully  betook 
myself  to  a  primary  school,  from  which  I  was  sent  home 
with  a  note,  saying  that  "  in  that  department  they  did 
not  go  beyond  the  '  primer/  and  as  this  little  girl  reads 
quite  well  from  a  '  reader,'  she  must  have  been  taught 
well  at  home."  We  were  a  proud  yet  disappointed  pair, 
my  mother  and  I,  that  day. 

An  odd  little  incident  occurred  about  that  time.  One 
of  our  hurried  flights  had  ended  at  a  boarding  house, 
and  my  extreme  quietude  —  unnatural  in  a  child  of 
health  and  intelligence  —  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
certain  boarder,  who  was  an  actress.  She  was  very 
popular  with  the  public,  and  both  she  and  her  hus- 
band were  well  liked  by  the  people  about  them.  She  took 
a  fancy  to  me,  and  informing  herself  that  my  mother  was 
poor  and  alone,  she  offered  to  adopt  me.  She  stated  her 
position,  her  income,  and  her  intention  of  educating  me 
thoroughly.  She  thought  a  convent  school  would  be  de- 
sirable —  from  ten,  say  to  seventeen. 

Perhaps  my  mother  was  tempted  —  she  was  a  fanatic 


"MY   PROCESSION"  7 

on  the  question  of  learning  —  but,  oh !  what  a  big  but 
came  in  just  then :  "  but  when  I  should  have,  by  God's 
will,  reached  the  age  of  seventeen,  she  (the  actress) 
would  place  me  upon  the  stage." 

"  Gracious  Heaven !  her  child  on  the  stage ! "  my 
mother  was  stricken  with  horror!  She  scarcely  had 
strength  to  make  her  shocked  refusal  plain  enough;  and 
when  her  employer  ventured  to  remonstrate  with  her, 
pointing  out  the  great  advantage  to  me,  she  made  answer : 
"  It  would  be  better  for  her  to  starve  trying  to  lead  a 
clean  and  honorable  life,  than  to  be  exposed  to  such  pub- 
licity and  such  awful  temptations !  " 

Poor  mother!  the  theatre  was  to  her  imagination  but 
a  beautiful  vestibule  leading  to  a  place  of  wickedness  and 
general  wrong-doing! 

During  those  endless  months,  when  I  had  each  day  to 
sit  for  hours  and  hours  in  one  particular  chair  in  a  cor- 
ner, well  out  of  the  way  —  sit  so  long  that  often  when 
I  was  lifted  down  I  could  not  stand  at  all,  my  limbs  being 
numbed  to  absolute  helplessness,  I  had  two  great  days 
to  dream  of,  to  look  forward  to  —  Christmas  and  that 
wonderful  I7th  of  March,  when  because  it  was  my  birth- 
day all  those  nice  gentlemen,  with  the  funny  hats  and 
green  collars,  walked  out  behind  the  band.  And  I  felt 
particularly  well  disposed  toward  those  most  amusing 
gentlemen  who  wore,  according  to  my  theory  at  least, 
their  little  girls'  aprons  tied  about  their  big  waists. 

I  did  not  like  so  well  the  attendant  crowd,  but  then  I 
could  not  be  selfish  enough  to  keep  people  from  looking 
at  "  my  procession  "  and  enjoying  the  music  that  made 
the  blood  dance  in  my  own  veins,  even  as  my  feet  danced 
on  the  chill  pavement. 

I  always  received  an  orange  on  that  day  from  my 
mother,  and  almost  always  a  book,  so  it  was  a  great  event 
in  my  life,  and  I  used  to  get  down  my  little  hat-box  and 
fix  the  laces  in  my  best  shoes  days  ahead  of  time 
that  I  might  be  ready  to  stand  on  some  steps  where  I 
could  bow  and  smile  to  the  nice  gentlemen  who  walked 


8  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

out  in  my  honor.  Heaven  only  knows  how  I  got  the 
idea  that  the  procession  was  meant  for  me,  but  it  made 
me  very  happy,  and  my  heart  was  big  with  love  and  grati- 
tude for  those  people  who  took  so  much  trouble  for  me. 

I  had  but  two  illusions  in  the  world  —  Santa  Claus  and 
"  my  procession  "  —  but,  alas !  on  my  eighth  birthday, 
when  in  an  outburst  of  innocent  triumph  and  joy  I  cried 
to  a  grown-up :  "  Ain't  they  good  —  those  funny  gentle- 
men —  to  come  and  march  and  play  music  for  my  birth- 
day ?  "  I  was  answered  with  the  assurance  that  I  "  was  a 
fool  —  that  no  one  knew  or  cared  a  copper  about  me  — 
that  it  was  a  Saint,  a  dead  and  gone  man,  they  marched 
for!" 

All  the  dance  went  out  of  my  feet,  heavy  tears  fell 
fast  and  stood  round  and  clear  on  the  woolly  surface  of 
my  cloak,  and  bending  my  head  low  to  hide  my  disap- 
pointment, I  went  slowly  home,  where  the  chair  seemed 
harder,  the  hours  longer,  and  life  more  bare  because 
I  had  lost  the  illusion  that  had  brightened  and  glorified  it. 

At  the  present  time,  here  in  my  home,  there  is  seated 
in  an  arm-chair,  a  venerable  doll.  She  is  a  hideous  speci- 
men of  the  beautiful  doll  of  the  early  "  fifties."  She  sits 
with  her  soles  well  turned  up,  facing  you,  her  arms  hang- 
ing from  her  shoulders  in  that  idiotically  helpless  "  I- 
give-it-up "  fashion  peculiar  to  dolls.  With  bulging 
scarlet  cheeks,  button-hole  mouth  and  flat,  blue  staring 
eyes  she  faces  Time  and  unwinkingly  looks  him  down. 
To  anyone  else  she  is  stupidity  personified,  but  to  me  she 
speaks,  for  she  came  to  me  on  my  fourth  Christmas,  and 
she  is  as  gifted  as  she  is  ugly.  Only  last  birthday  —  as 
I  straightened  out  her  old,  old  dress  skirt  —  she  asked 
me  if  I  remembered  how  I  cried,  with  my  face  in  her  lap, 
over  that  first  loss  of  an  illusion  —  and  I  told  her  quite 
truly  that  I  remembered  well ! 


CHAPTER  THIRD 

I  Enter  a  New  World  —  I   Know  a  New  Hunger  and  we 
Return  to  Cleveland. 

THE  experiences  of  the  first  two  of  my  third  group 
of  years  have  influenced  my  entire  life.  Still  flying 
from  my  seemingly  ubiquitous  father,  my  mother 
after  a  desperate  struggle  gained  enough  money  to  pay  for 
our  journey  to  what  was  then  called  the  "  far  West "  — 
namely,  the  southwestern  part  of  Illinois.  Child-fashion, 
I  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  a  change,  and  happy 
over  the  belief  that  I  was  going  to  some  place  where  I 
could  be  free  to  go  and  come  like  other  children,  without 
dreading  the  appearance  of  a  big,  smiling  man  from  any 
deep  doorway  or  from  around  the  next  corner.  To  tell 
the  truth,  that  persistent,  indestructible  smile  always 
seemed  an  insult  added  to  the  injury  of  his  malicious  and 
revengeful  conduct. 

Then,  too,  I  experienced  my  first  delicious  thrill  of 
imaginary  terror.  In  a  torn  and  abandoned  old  geogra- 
phy I  had  seen  a  picture  labelled  "  Prairie."  The  grass 
was  as  high  as  a  man's  shoulders,  and  stealthily  emerging 
from  it  was  a  sort  of  compound  animal,  neither  tiger  nor 
leopard,  but  with  points  of  resemblance  to  both.  And 
here  every  day  I  was  listening  to  the  grown-ups  talking 
of  "  prairie  lands,"  and  how  far  we  might  have  to  drive 
across  the  prairie  after  leaving  the  train ;  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  that  I  would  hold  our  umbrella  all  the  time,  and 
when  the  uncertain  beast  came  out  I'd  try  to  stick  his 
eyes  with  it,  and  under  cover  of  the  confusion  we  would 
undoubtedly  escape. 

That  being  settled,  I  could  turn  all  my  attention  to 

9 


10  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

preparations  for  the  long  journey.  Dear  me,  I  remem- 
ber just  where  each  big  red  rose  came  on  the  carpet-bag, 
and  how  sorry  I  was  that  the  tiny  brass  lock  came  right 
in  the  side  of  one.  It  was  a  large  bag  and  held  a  great 
deal,  but  was  so  arranged  that  whatever  you  wanted  was 
always  found  at  the  bottom  —  whether  it  was  the  tooth- 
brush or  a  night-gown  or  a  pair  of  rubbers.  It  had  a 
sort  of  dividing  wall  of  linen  in  its  middle,  and  while  one 
side  held  clothing,  the  other  side  was  the  commissary  de- 
partment. No  buffet-cars  then,  travellers  ran  their  own 
buffets,  and  though  the  things  did  not  come  into  actual 
contact,  there  was  not  an  article,  big  or  little,  in  that  bag 
that  did  not  smell  of  pickles.  And  once  when  my  mother 
had  hastily  attended  to  my  needs  in  the  miserable  toilet- 
room  of  the  car  (no  sleeper  —  just  a  sit-up-all-night  af- 
fair), my  clean  stockings,  white  apron  and  little  hand- 
kerchief all  exhaled  vinegar  so  strongly  that  I  wrinkled 
up  my  nose,  exclaiming:  "I  smell  jes'  like  a  pickled 
little  girl  —  don't  I,  ma'ma?"  And  then,  when  weary 
and  worn  and  dusty,  we  left  the  cars  and  had  to  drive 
some  thirty  miles,  in  a  carriage  of  uncertain  class,  over 
the  open  prairie  —  then  smooth  and  bright  and  green  — 
I  wearily  remarked,  after  a  time,  that  it  was  a  "  pretty  big 
lawn,  but  where  was  the  prairie  ?  "  for  true  to  my  plan 
I  had  secured  the  umbrella,  and  being  told  that  I  was 
crossing  the  prairie  then,  I  was  a  bitterly  disappointed 
young  person.  Oh,  how  I  longed  to  give  way  to  one  of 
those  passionate  outbursts  we  so  often  see  children  in- 
dulge in !  Oh,  how  I  wanted  to  hurl  aside  the  umbrella 
I  had  begged  for,  to  fling  my  weary  self  down  on  the 
floor  and  cry,  and  cry!  But  I  dared  not  —  never  in  my 
whole  life  had  I  ventured  on  such  an  exhibition  of  tem- 
per or  feeling  —  so  I  winked  fast  and  held  very  still  and 
swallowed  hard  at  the  disappointment,  which  was  but  the 
first  of  such  a  number  of  very  bitter  pills  that  I  was  yet 
to  swallow. 

But,  thank  God!  if  I  was  easily  cast  down,  I  was  as 
easily  cheered;   and  the  prairie  left  behind,  the  sight  of 


COUNTRY   LIFE  11 

the  first  orchard  we  passed,  with  the  soft  perfumed  snow 
of  the  blossoms  floating  through  the  rosy  sunset  light, 
raised  my  spirits  to  an  ecstasy  of  joy;  and  when  our 
journey  ended,  at  the  rough  farm-house,  with  my  arm 
around  the  surly  looking  watch-dog,  I  stood  and  heard 
for  the  first  time  the  mournful  cry  of  the  whippoorwill 
out  in  the  star-pierced  dark  of  the  early  May  night,  I 
thrilled  with  the  unspoken  consciousness  that  this  was  a 
new  world  that  I  was  entering  —  a  lovely,  lovely  world, 
that  the  grown-ups  called  the  "  country  " ! 

For  the  two  years  I  knew  it  the  charm  of  that  back- 
wood  life  never  palled.  I  had  never  seen  the  country  be- 
fore, and  I  found  it  a  place  of  beauty  and  many  mar- 
vels. I  did  not  miss  the  fine  city  shops,  for  I  never  had 
had  money  to  spend  in  them.  I  did  not  miss  the  peo- 
ple, for  they  had  been  nothing  to  me.  And  here  no  day 
that  dawned  failed  to  bring  me  some  new  experience. 
With  what  awed  wonderment  I  faced  the  mystery  of  the 
springing  grain.  I  saw  the  seed,  hard  and  dry,  fall  into 
the  furrowed  earth  and,  a  few  days  later,  with  gentle 
strength,  tiny  pale  green  spears  come  pricking  through 
the  brown.  I  learned  not  to  look  under  the  hickory-trees 
for  the  oak  acorns  that  I  adored.  I  was  soon  able  to  tell 
the  rapidly  forming  furry  green  peaches  from  the  smooth 
young  apples,  and  I  literally  fell  down  upon  my  knees 
and  worshipped  before  lambs,  calves,  and  colts. 

In  this  new,  strange  life  everyone  worked,  but  they 
worked  for  themselves  —  to  use  a  country  expression,  no 
one  "  hired  out."  I  was  a  very  little  girl.  I  could  not 
spin  as  could  my  mother,  who  had  passed  her  childhood 
in  back  wood  life.  Of  course  I  could  not  weave,  but  I 
was  taught  to  knit  my  own  stockings  —  such  humpy, 
lumpy  knitting !  But  I  was  very  proud  of  the  accomplish- 
ment, even  though  my  mother  did  have  to  "  turn  the 
heel."  Then,  too,  I  with  other  children  at  planting-time 
dropped  corn  in  the  sun-warmed  furrows,  while  a  man 
followed  behind  with  a  hoe  covering  it  up ;  and  when  it 
had  sprouted  and  was  a  tempting  morsel  for  certain 


12  LIFE   ON    THE   STAGE 

black  robbers  of  the  field,  I  made  a  very  active  and  ener- 
getic young  scare-crow. 

Here,  too,  I  became  acquainted  with  children.  They 
were  all  older  than  I  was,  a  hearty,  healthy,  wisely-igno- 
rant lot.  They  knew  so  much  about  farming  and  so  little 
about  anything  else.  Not  one  of  them  could  tell  a  story 
out  of  the  Bible,  and  as  for  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress," 
they  had  never  heard  tell  of  it ;  while  Bunyan  only  meant 
to  them  an  enlarged  toe- joint  —  not  a  great  author. 

The  lack  of  reading  matter  was  the  one  blemish  on  my 
country  life.  The  library,  composed  of  the  Bible  and  the 
almanac,  was  not  satisfying  to  my  inquiring  mind.  One 
paper  was  taken  in  by  the  head  of  the  family  —  it  was  a 
weekly,  in  every  possible  sense  —  but  I  came  to  watch 
eagerly  for  it,  and  it  filled  the  family  with  amazement  to 
see  me  sit  down  on  the  step  and  gravely  wade  through 
its  dreary  columns  —  happy  if  I  could  catch  hold  of  some 
idea  —  some  bit  of  news  —  some  scrap  of  story ;  and  my 
farmer  host  one  day  at  his  noon  smoke  removed  his 
corn-cob  pipe  from  his  lips  long  enough  to  remark  of  me : 
"  Dogorne  my  skin !  if  that  young  'un  ain't  awake  and 
enj'ien  hersel'.  Now  I  allers  go  ter  sleep  over  that  paper 
mysel' !  "  So  should  I  —  now  —  I  presume. 

These  children  being  for-true,  real  children  had  no 
idea  of  showing  courtesy  or  politeness  to  a  stranger,  but 
they  had  a  very  natural  yearning  to  get  fun  out  of  that 
stranger  if  they  could,  and  so  they  blithely  led  me  forth 
to  a  pasture  shortly  after  our  arrival  at  the  farm,  and 
catching  a  horse  they  hoisted  me  up  on  to  its  bare,  slip- 
pery back.  I  have  learned  a  good  bit  about  horses  since 
then  —  have  hired,  borrowed,  and  bought  them  —  have 
been  to  circuses  and  horse  shows,  but  never  since  have  I 
seen  a  horse  of  such  appalling  aspect.  His  eyes  were  the 
size  of  soup-plates,  large  clouds  of  smoke  came  from  his 
nostrils.  He  had  a  glass-enamelled  surface,  and  if  he 
was  one  half  as  tall  as  he  felt,  some  museum  manager 
missed  a  fortune.  Then  the  young  fiends,  leaving  me  on 
my  slippery  perch,  high  up  near  the  sky,  drew  afar  off 


CHILDHOOD  AMUSEMENTS          13 

and  stood  over  against  the  fence  and  gave  me  plenty  of 
room  —  to  fall  off.  But  when  I  suddenly  felt  the  world 
heave  up  beneath  me,  I  uttered  a  wild  shriek  —  clenched 
my  hands  in  the  animal's  back  hair,  and,  madly  flinging 
propriety  to  any  point  of  the  compass  that  happened  to 
be  behind  me,  I  cast  one  pantalet  over  the  enamelled 
back,  and  thus  astride,  safely  crossed  the  pasture  —  and 
lo !  it  was  not  I  who  fell,  but  their  faces  instead.  When 
they  came  to  take  me  down,  somehow  the  animal  seemed 
shrunken  and  I  hesitated  about  leaving  it,  whereupon  the 
biggest  boy  said  I  had  "pluck"  (I  had  been  frightened 
nearly  to  death,  but  I  always  could  be  silent  at  the  proper 
moment;  I  was  silent  then),  and  he  would  teach  me 
to  ride  sideways,  for  my  mother  would  surely  punish  me 
if  I  sat  astride  like  that ;  and  in  a  few  weeks,  thanks  to 
him,  I  was  the  one  who  was  oftenest  trusted  to  take  the 
horses  to  water  at  noon,  riding  sideways  and  always  bare- 
back, mounted  on  one  horse  and  leading  a  second  to  the 
creek,  until  all  had  had  their  drink.  Which  habit  of  rid- 
ing —  from  balance  —  has  made  me  quite  independent  of 
stirrups  on  various  occasions  since  those  far-away  days. 

In  the  late  autumn,  these  same  children  taught  me 
where  and  when  and  how  to  find  such  treasures  of  the 
woods  as  hickory-nuts,  chestnuts  (rare  there),  butternuts, 
and  pecan-nuts,  while  the  thickets  furnished  hazel-nuts 
and  the  frost  brought  sweetness  to  the  persimmon,  and 
consequently  pleasure  to  our  palates,  but  never  could  I 
acquire  a  taste  for  the  "  paw-paw,"  that  inane  custard- 
like  fruit,  often  called  the  American  banana. 

I  helped  obtain  the  roots  and  barks  and  nut-shells  from 
which  the  grown-ups  made  their  dyes.  I  learned  to  use 
a  bow  and  arrow ;  and  on  rainy  days,  having  nothing  new 
to  read,  I  learned  by  heart  the  best  chapters  of  my  own 
birthday  books,  and  often  repeated  them  to  the  other  chil- 
dren when  we  cuddled  in  the  hayloft,  above  the  horses. 

One  day  I  became  too  realistic,  and  in  my  "  flight  from 
my  step-mother's  home  "  I  fell  through  the  hole  where 
the  hay  was  tossed  down  to  old  Jerry's  manger.  He  was 


14  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

a  serious-minded  and  kindly  old  horse,  and  did  nothing 
worse  than  snort  a  little  over  the  change  in  his  diet,  from 
hay  to  small  girl.  My  severe  bruises  would  have  been 
borne  with  fortitude,  but  when  I  arose  —  behold  a 
wretched  wandering  hen  had  been  in  the  manger  before 
me,  and  if  one  judged  from  the  state  of  my  clothing,  the 
egg  she  had  left  behind  must  have  been  the  size  of  a 
melon  at  least !  If  that  seems  an  exaggeration,  just  break 
an  egg  in  your  pocket,  if  you  don't  care  to  sit  down  on 
one,  and  see  how  far  it  will  spread.  Then,  indeed,  I  lifted 
my  voice  and  wept! 

Yes,  those  were  two  precious  years,  in  which  I  learned 
to  love  passionately  the  beauty  of  the  world !  The  tender, 
mystic  charm  of  dawn,  the  pomp  and  splendor  of  the 
setting  of  the  sun !  Finding  in  the  tiny  perfection  of  the 
velvety  moss  the  minute  repetition  of  the  form  and  branch- 
ing beauty  of  the  stately  tree  at  whose  root  it  grew! 
Seeing  all  the  beauty  of  the  blue  sky  and  its  sailing 
clouds  encompassed  by  a  quivering  drop  of  dew  upon  a 
mullein  leaf  I  dimly  felt  some  faint  comprehension  of 
the  divine  satisfaction  when  the  Creator  pronounced  the 
work  of  His  hands,  "  Good !  " 

From  the  first  my  mother  had  been  greatly  distressed 
by  the  absence  of  any  school  to  which  I  might  go,  and 
also  by  her  inability  to  earn  money.  She  had  been  wise 
enough  not  to  leave  Cleveland  without  sufficient  means 
to  bring  us  back  again  —  which  proved  most  fortunate. 
For  when  quite  suddenly  we  heard  of  the  published  death 
of  my  father,  we  immediately  returned  and  she  obtained 
employment,  while  I  was  sent  to  the  public  school.  But, 
oh,  what  a  poor,  meagre  course  of  study  I  entered  on. 
Reading,  writing,  spelling,  arithmetic,  and  geography  — 
that  was  all !  Only  one  class  in  the  grammar-school  studied 
history.  However,  improvements  were  being  discussed, 
and  I  remember  that  three  weeks  before  my  final  with- 
drawal from  school  my  mother  had  to  buy  me  a  book  on 
physiology,  which  was  to  be  taught  to  the  children,  who 
had  not  even  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  grammar.  But 


A  SAVING  HABIT  15 

I  hungered  and  thirsted  for  knowledge  —  I  craved  it  — 
longed  for  it.  During  the  weary  years  of  repression  I 
had  fallen  back  upon  imagination  for  amusement  and 
comfort,  and  when  I  was  ten  my  "  thinks,"  as  I  then 
called  my  waking  dreams,  almost  surely  took  one  of  these 
two  forms.  Since  I  had  abandoned  "  thinks "  about 
fairies  coming  to  grant  my  wishes,  I  always  walked  out 
(in  my  best  hat),  and  saved  either  an  old  lady  or  an  old 
gentleman  —  sometimes  one,  sometimes  the  other  —  from 
some  imminent  peril  —  a  sort  of  impressionist  peril  — 
vague  but  very  terrible !  and  the  rescued  one  was  always 
tremblingly  grateful  and  offered  to  reward  me,  and  I 
always  sternly  refused  to  be  rewarded,  but  unbent  suffi- 
ciently to  see  the  saved  one  safely  to  his  or  her  splendid 
home.  There  I  revelled  in  furniture,  pictures,  musical  in- 
struments and  an  assortment  of  beautiful  dogs.  On  leav- 
ing this  palatial  residence  I  consented  to  give  my  address, 
and  next  day  the  "  saved "  called  on  my  mother  and 
after  some  conversation  it  was  settled  that  I  was  to  go  to 
the  convent-school  for  four  years,  where  I  knew  the  edu- 
cation was  generous  and  thorough,  and  that  languages, 
music,  and  painting  were  all  taught.  As  these  "  thinks  " 
took  place  at  night  after  the  ill-smelling  extinguishment 
of  the  candle,  I  generally  fell  asleep  before,  in  white  robe 
and  a  crown  of  flowers,  I  gathered  up  all  the  prizes  and 
diplomas  and  things  I  had  earned. 

When  my  mother  in  the  performance  of  her  duties 
had  to  accept  orders,  she  received  them  calmly  and 
as  a  matter  of  course  —  whatever  she  may  have  felt  in 
her  heart  —  but  I  loved  and  reverenced  her  so !  To  me 
she  was  the  one  woman  of  the  world ;  and  when  I  saw  her 
taking  orders  from  another  I  flinched  and  shrank  as  I 
would  have  done  beneath  the  sharp  lash  of  a  whip,  and 
then  for  nights  afterward  (so  soon  as  I  had  released  my 
nose,  tightly  pinched  to  keep  out  the  smell  of  candle- 
smoke),  I  settled  down,  with  my  mother's  hand  tight 
clasped  in  mine,  to  my  other  favorite  "  thinks  "  where- 
in I  did  some  truly  remarkable  embroidery,  of  such  pre- 


16  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

cision  of  stitch,  such  perfection  of  coloring  and  shading, 
that  when  I  offered  it  for  sale  I  was  much  embarrassed 
by  the  numbers  of  would-be  buyers.  However,  an  old 
lady  finally  won  me  away  from  the  store  (that  old  lady 
was  bound  to  appear  in  all  my  "  thinks  "),  and  I  had  to 
be  very  firm  with  her  to  keep  her  from  over-paying  me 
for  the  work  of  my  hands. 

Then,  as  I  had  graciously  promised  the  store-keeper 
any  over-plus  of  embroidery  not  needed  by  the  generous 
old  person,  I  felt  my  income  secure,  and  hastened  to  rent 
two  rooms  and  furnish  them,  ready  to  take  my  aston- 
ished mother  there  —  where  she  could  do  the  ordering 
herself. 

I  hung  curtains,  laid  carpets,  put  dishes  in  the  cupboard, 
gave  one  window  to  my  mother  and  kept  one  for  myself 
and  my  very  exceptional  embroidery ;  and,  though  I  laugh 
now,  I  had  then  many  an  hour  of  genuine  happiness,  fur- 
nishing this  imaginary  home  and  refuge  for  the  mother 
I  loved! 


CHAPTER  FOURTH 

I  am  Led  into  the  Theatre — I  Attend  Rehearsals — I  am 
Made  Acquainted  with  the  Vagaries  of  Tights. 

I  WAS  approaching  my  thirteenth  birthday  when  it 
came  about  that  a  certain  ancient  boarding-house 
keeper  —  far  gone  in  years  — required  someone  to  as- 
sist her,  someone  she  could  trust  entirely  and  leave  in 
charge  for  a  month  at  a  time ;  and  I,  not  being  able  to  read 
the  future,  was  greatly  chagrined  because  my  mother  ac- 
cepted the  offered  situation.  I  was  always  happiest  when 
she  found  occupation  in  a  house  where  there  was  a  library, 
for  people  were  generally  kind  to  me  in  that  respect  and 
gave  me  the  freedom  of  their  shelves,  seeing  that  I  was 
reverently  careful  of  all  books;  but  in  a  boarding-house 
there  would  be  no  library,  and  my  heart  sank  as  we  entered 
the  gloomy  old  building. 

No,  there  were  no  books,  but  among  the  boarders  there 
were  two  or  three  actors  and  two  actresses  —  a  mother 
and  a  daughter.  The  mother  played  the  "  first  old 
women  " ;  the  daughter,  only  a  year  or  two  older  than  I 
was,  played,  I  was  told,  "  walking-ladies,"  though  what 
that  meant  I  could  not  imagine. 

The  daughter  (Blanche)  liked  me,  while  I  looked  upon 
her  with  awe,  and  wondered  why  she  even  noticed  me. 
She  was  very  wilful,  she  would  not  study  anything  on 
earth  save  her  short  parts.  She  had  never  read  a  book 
in  her  life.  When  I  was  home  from  school  I  told  her 
stories  by  the  hour,  and  she  would  say :  "  You*  ought 
to  be  in  a  theatre  —  you  could  act !  " 

And  then  I  would  be  dumb  for  a  long  time,  because  I 
thought  she  was  making  fun  of  me.  One  day  I  was  chew- 
ing some  gum  she  gave  me  —  I  was  not  chewing  it  very 

17 


18  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

nicely,  either  —  and  my  mother  boxed  my  ears,  and 
Blanche  said :  "  You  ought  to  be  in  a  theatre  —  you  could 
chew  all  the  gum  you  liked  there !  " 

And  just  then  my  mother  was  so  cruelly  overworked, 
and  the  spring  came  in  with  furious  heat,  and  I  felt  so 
big  and  yet  so  helpless  —  a  great  girl  of  thirteen  to  be 
worked  for  by  another  —  and  the  humiliation  seemed 
more  than  I  could  bear,  and  I  locked  myself  in  our  dreary 
cupboard  of  a  room,  and  flung  myself  upon  my  knees, 
and  in  a  passion  of  tears  tried  to  make  a  bargain  with 
my  God !  I  meant  no  irreverence  —  I  was  intensely  re- 
ligious. I  did  not  see  the  enormity  of  the  act  —  I  only 
knew  that  I  suffered,  and  that  God  could  help  me  —  so 
I  asked  His  help !  But,  instead  of  stopping  there,  I  cried 
out  to  Him  this  promise:  "  Dear  God!  just  pity  me  and 
show  me  what  to  do !  Please  —  please  help  me  to  help 
my  mother  —  and  if  you  will,  I'll  never  say  '  No ! '  to  any 
woman  who  comes  to  me  all  my  life  long !  " 

My  error  in  trying  to  barter  with  my  Maker  must  have 
been  forgiven,  for  my  prayer  was  answered  within  a  week, 
while  there  are  many  women  scattered  through  the 
land  who  know  that  I  have  tried  faithfully  to  keep  my 
part  of  that  bargain,  and  no  woman  who  has  sought  my 
aid  has  ever  been  answered  with  a  "  No !  " 

One  day  Blanche  greeted  me  with  the  news  that  extra 
ballet-girls  were  wanted,  and  told  me  that  I  must  go  at 
once  and  get  engaged. 

"  But/'  I  said,  "  maybe  they  won't  take  me !  " 

"  Well,"  answered  she,  "  I've  coaxed  your  mother,  and 
my  mother  says  she'll  look  out  for  you  —  so  at  any  rate 
go  and  see.  I'll  take  you  to-morrow." 

And  so  dimly,  vaguely,  I  seemed  to  see  a  way  opening 
out  before  me,  and  again  behind  the  locked  door  I  knelt 
and  said :  "  Dear  God !  dear  God !  "  and  got  no  further, 
because  grief  has  many  words  and  joy  has  so  few. 

The  school  term  had  closed  on  Friday,  and  on  Saturday 
morning,  with  my  heart  beating  almost  to  suffocation,  I 
started  out  to  walk  to  the  theatre  with  Blanche,  who  had 


I   JOIN   THE   BALLET  19 

promised  to  ask  Mr.  Ellsler  (the  manager)  to  take  me  on 
in  the  ballet.  When  we  reached  the  sidewalk  we  saw 
the  sky  threatened  rain  and  Blanche  sent  me  back  for  an 
umbrella.  I  had  none  of  my  own,  so  I  borrowed  one  from 
Mrs.  Miller  (our  landlady),  and  at  sight  of  it  my  com- 
panion broke  into  laughter.  It  was  a  dreadful  affair  — 
with  a  knobby,  unkind  handle,  a  slovenly  and  corpulent 
body,  and  a  circumference,  when  open,  that  suggested  the 
idea  that  it  had  been  built  to  shelter  not  only  the  land- 
lady, but  those  wise  ones  of  the  boarders  who  had  paid 
up  before  the  winds  rose  and  the  rain  fell.  Then  we 
proceeded  to  the  old  Academy  of  Music  on  Bank  Street, 
and  entering,  went  upstairs,  and  just  as  we  reached  the 
top  step  a  small  dark  man  hurried  across  the  hall  and 
Blanche  called  quickly:  "Oh,  Mr.  Ellsler  — Mr.  Ellsler! 
wait  a  moment,  please  —  I  want  to  speak  to  you !  " 

I  could  not  know  that  his  almost  repellent  sternness 
of  face  concealed  a  kindness  of  heart  that  approached 
weakness,  so  when  he  turned  a  frowning,  impatient  face 
toward  us,  hope  left  me  utterly,  and  for  a  moment  I 
seemed  to  stand  in  a  great  darkness.  I  think  I  can  do  no 
better  than  to  give  Mr.  Ellsler's  own  account  of  that,  our 
first  meeting,  as  he  has  given  it  often  since.  He  says: 
"  I  was  much  put  out  by  a  business  matter  and  was  hastily 
crossing  the  corridor  when  Blanche  called  me,  and  I  saw 
she  had  another  girl  in  tow ;  a  girl  whose  appearance  in  a 
theatre  was  so  droll  I  must  have  laughed,  had  I  not  been 
more  than  a  little  cross.  Her  dress  was  quite  short  —  she 
wore  a  pale-blue  apron  buttoned  up  the  back,  long  braids 
tied  at  the  ends  with  ribbon,  and  a  brown  straw  hat, 
while  she  clutched  desperately  at  the  handle  of  the  big- 
gest umbrella  I  ever  saw.  Her  eyes  were  distinctly  blue 
and  were  plainly  big  with  fright.  Blanche  gave  her  name 
and  said  she  wanted  to  go  on  in  the  ballet,  and  I  instantly 
answered  she  would  not  do,  she  was  too  small  —  I 
wanted  women,  not  children,  and  started  to  return  to  my 
office.  Blanche  was  voluble,  but  the  girl  herself  never 
spoke  a  single  word.  I  glanced  toward  her  and  stopped. 


20  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

The  hands  that  clutched  the  umbrella  trembled  —  she 
raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  me.  I  had  noticed  their  blue- 
ness  a  moment  before  —  now  they  were  almost  black,  so 
swiftly  had  the  pupils  dilated,  and  slowly  the  tears  rose 
in  them.  All  the  father  in  me  shrank  under  the  child's 
bitter  disappointment;  all  the  actor  in  me  thrilled  at 
the  power  of  expression  in  the  girl's  face,  and  I  hastily 
added :  '  Oh,  well !  You  may  come  back  in  a  day  or 
two,  and  if  anyone  appears  meantime  who  is  short  enough 
to  march  with  you  I'll  take  you  on,'  and  after  I  got  to 
my  office  I  remembered  the  girl  had  not  spoken  a  single 
word,  but  had  won  an  engagement  —  for  I  knew  I  should 
engage  her  —  with  a  pair  of  tear-filled  eyes." 

The  following  Tuesday,  under  the  protection  of  the 
ever-faithful  Blanche,  I  again  presented  myself  and  was 
engaged  for  the  term  of  two  weeks,  to  go  on  the  stage 
in  the  marches  and  dances  of  a  play  called  "  The  Seven 
Sisters,"  for  which  service  I  was  to  receive  three  dollars 
a  week,  or  fifty  cents  a  night,  as  there  were  no  matinees 
then,  and  so  I  entered,  with  wide-astonished  eyes,  into 
that  dim,  dusty,  chaotic  place  known  as  "  behind  the 
scenes  "  —  a  strange  place,  where  nothing  is  and  every- 
thing may  be. 

In  the  daytime  I  found  the  stage  a  thing  dead  —  at 
night,  with  the  blazing  of  the  gas,  it  lived !  for  light  is 
its  life,  music  is  its  soul,  and  the  play  its  brain. 

Silently  and  cautiously  I  walked  about,  gazing  curi- 
ously at  the  "  scenes,"  so  fine  on  one  side,  so  bare  and 
cheap  on  the  other ;  at  the  tarlatan  "  glass  windows  " ;  at 
the  green  "  calico  sea,"  lying  flat  and  waveless  on  the 
floor.  Everything  there  pretended  to  be  something  else, 
and  at  last  I  said  solemnly  to  Blanche :  "  Is  everything 
only  make-believe  in  a  theatre  ?  " 

And  she  turned  her  gum  to  the  other  side  and  answered : 
"  Yes,  everything's  make-believe  —  except  salary  day !  " 

Then  came  the  rehearsal  —  everything  was  military 
just  then  —  and  there  was  a  Zouave  drill  to  learn,  as  well 
as  a  couple  of  dances.  The  women  and  girls  who  had 


I   AM  ENCOURAGED  21 

been  engaged  were  not  the  very  nicest  people  in  the  world, 
though  they  were  the  best  to  be  found  at  such  short  no- 
tice ;  and  Mrs.  Bradshaw  told  me  not  to  stand  about  with 
them,  but  to  come  to  her  as  soon  as  my  share  in  the  work 
was  over.  "  But,"  said  this  wise  woman,  "  don't  fail 
in  politeness  to  them ;  for  nothing  can  hold  a  person  so 
far  off  as  extreme  politeness." 

To  me  the  manual  of  arms  was  mere  child's  play,  and 
the  drill  a  veritable  delight.  The  second  day  I  scribbled 
down  the  movements  in  the  order  that  they  had  been 
made,  and  learned  them  by  heart,  with  the  result  that  on 
the  third  day  I  sat  aside  chewing  gum,  while  the  stage- 
manager  raved  over  the  rest.  Then  the  star  —  Mr.  Mc- 
Donough  —  came  along  and  furiously  demanded  to  know 
why  I  was  not  drilling.  "  The  gentleman  sent  me  out  of 
the  ranks,  sir,"  I  answered,  "because  he  said  I  knew 
the  manual  and  drill !  " 

"  Oh,  indeed !  well,  there's  not  one  of  you  that  knows 
it  —  and  you  never  will  know  it !  You're  a  set  of  numb- 
skulls !  Here !  "  he  cried,  catching  up  a  rifle,  "  take  hold 
of  this  —  get  up  here  —  and  let's  see  how  much  you  know ! 
Now,  then,  shoulder  arms !  " 

And  standing  alone  —  burning  with  blushes,  blinded 
with  tears  of  mortification  —  I  was  put  through  my  paces 
with  a  vengeance ;  but  I  really  knew  the  manual  as  thor- 
oughly as  I  knew  the  drill,  and  when  it  was  over  Mr. 
McDonough  took  the  rifle  from  me,  and  exclaimed: 
"  Well,  saucer-eyes,  you  do  know  it !  I'm  d — d  if  you 
don't!  and  I'm  sorry,  little  girl,  I  spoke  so  roughly  to 
you!." 

He  held  out  his  fat  white  hand  to  me,  and  as  I  took  it 
he  added :  "  You  ought  to  stay  in  this  business  —  you've 
got  your  head  with  you !  " 

It  was  a  small  matter,  of  course,  but  there  was  a  faint 
hint  of  triumph  in  it,  and  the  savor  was  very  pleasant 
to  me. 

Naturally,  with  a  salary  of  but  three  dollars  a  week,  we 
turned  to  the  management  for  our  costumes.  I  wonder 


22  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

what  the  danseuse  of  to-day  would  think  of  the  costume 
worn  by  her  sister  of  the  "  sixties  "  ?  Now  her  few  gauzy 
limb-betraying  skirts  reach  but  to  the  middle  of  the 
thigh ;  her  scrap  of  a  bodice,  cut  far  below  the  shoulder- 
blades  at  the  back,  being  absolutely  sleeveless,  is  pre- 
cariously held  in  place  by  a  string  or  two  of  beads.  To 
be  sure,  she  is  apt  to  wear  a  collar  of  blazing  diamonds, 
instead  of  the  simple  band  of  black  velvet  that  used  to  be 
sufficient  ornament  for  the  peerless  Bonfanti  and  the 
beautiful  and  modest  Betty  Rigl,  who  in  their  graceful 
ignorance  of  "  splits "  and  athletic  "  tours  de  force," 
managed  in  their  voluminous  and  knee-long  skirts  to 
whirl,  to  glide,  to  poise  and  float,  to  show,  in  fact,  the 
poetry  of  motion. 

But  we,  this  untrained  ballet,  were  not  Bonfantis  nor 
Morlachis,  and  we  wore  our  dancing  clothes  with  a  dif- 
ference. In  one  dance  we  were  supposed  to  be  fairies. 
We  wore  flesh-colored  slippers  and  tights.  It  took  one 
full  week  of  our  two  weeks'  engagement  to  learn  how  to 
secure  these  treacherous  articles,  so  that  they  would  re- 
main smooth  and  not  wrinkle  down  somewhere  or  twist 
about.  One  girl  never  learned,  and  to  the  last  added  to 
the  happiness  of  the  public  by  ambling  about  on  a  pair  of 
legs  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  done  up  in  curl  papers 
the  night  before. 

We  each  had  seven  white  tarlatan  skirts,  as  full  as  they 
could  be  gathered  —  long  enough  to  come  a  little  below 
the  knee.  Our  waists  were  also  flesh-colored,  and  were 
cut  fully  two  or  three  inches  below  our  collar-bones,  so 
you  see  there  was  plenty  of  cloth  at  our  backs  to  hook  our 
very  immature  wings  to.  We  had  wreaths  of  white  roses 
on  our  heads  —  Blanche,  who  was  very  frank,  said  they 
looked  like  wreaths  of  turnips  —  and  garlands  of  white 
roses  to  wave  in  the  dance.  I  remember  the  girl  with 
the  curled  legs  was  loathed  by  all  because  she  lassoed 
everyone  she  came  near  with  her  garland  —  so  you  see  we 
were  very  decorous  fairies,  whether  we  were  decorative 
or  not. 


MASTERING    TIGHTS  23 

Of  course  we  were  rather  substantial,  and  our  wings 
did  seem  too  thin  and  small  to  sustain  us  satisfactorily. 
One  girl  took  hers  off  in  the  dressing-room  and  remarked 
contemptuously  that  "  they  couldn't  lift  her  cat  even ! " 

But  another,  who  was  dictatorial  and  also  of  a  suspi- 
cious nature,  answered  savagely :  "  You  don't  know  noth- 
ing about  wings  —  and  you  haven't  got  no  cat,  nohow, 
and  you  know  it  —  so  shut  up !  "  and  the  conversation 
closed. 

In  our  second  costume  we  were  frankly  human.  We 
still  wore  dancing  skirts,  but  we  were  in  colors,  and  we 
had,  of  course,  shed  our  wings  —  nasty,  scratchy  things 
they  were,  I  remember.  Then  for  the  drill  and  march  we 
wore  the  regular  Fire  Zouave  uniform. 

It  was  all  great  fun  for  me  —  you  remember  I  was  not 
stage-struck.  Dramatically  speaking,  I  was  not  yet  born 
—  I  had  neither  ambition  nor  fear  —  I  was  simply  happy 
because  I  was  going  to  earn  that,  to  me,  great  sum  of 
money,  and  was  going  to  give  it  to  my  mother,  and 
planned  only  what  I  should  say  to  her,  and  had  no  thought 
at  all  of  the  theatre  or  anything  or  any  person  in  it. 

The  donning  of  fleshings  for  the  first  time  is  an  occa- 
sion of  anxiety  to  anyone,  man  or  woman.  I,  however, 
approached  the  subject  of  tights  with  an  open  mind,  and 
Blanche  freely  gave  me  both  information  and  advice. 
She  chilled  my  blood  by  describing  the  mortifying  mis- 
haps, the  dread  disasters  these  garments  had  brought  to 
those  who  failed  to  understand  them.  She  declared  them 
to  be  tricky,  unreliable,  and  malicious  in  the  extreme. 

'  There's  just  one  way  to  succeed  with  'em,"  she  said, 
"  and  that's  by  bullying  'em.  Show  you're  afraid  and 
they  will  slip  and  twist  and  wrinkle  down  and  make  you 
a  perfect  laughing-stock.  You  must  take  your  time,  you 
know,  at  first,  and  fit  'em  on  very  carefully  and  smoothly 
over  your  feet  and  ankles  and  up  over  your  knees.  See 
that  they  are  nice  and  straight  or  you'll  look  as  if  you 
were  walking  on  corkscrews,  but  after  that  bully  'em  — 
yank  and  pull  and  drag  'em,  and  when  you  have  'em  drawn 


24  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

up  as  tight  as  you  can  draw  'em,  go  at  'em  and  pull  'em 
up  another  inch  at  least.  They'll  creak  and  snap  and  pre- 
tend they're  going  to  tear,  but  don't  you  ever  leave  your 
dressing-room  satisfied,  unless  you  feel  you  can't  pos- 
sibly get  down-stairs  without  going  sideways." 

"  But,"  I  remonstrated,  "  they'll  break  and  let  my  knees 
through ! " 

"  Oh,  no  they  won't ! "  she  cheerfully  answered. 
"  They'll  make  believe  they're  going  to  split  at  the  knee,  of 
course,  but  instead  they'll  just  keep  as  safe  and  smooth 
as  the  skin  on  your  arm.  But,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  be 
afraid  of  Jem!" 

And  I  gravely  promised  to  be  as  bold  as  I  possibly 
could  in  my  first  encounter  with  the  flesh-colored  terrors. 


CHAPTER  FIFTH 

I  Receive  my  First  Salary  —  I  am  Engaged  for  the  Com- 
ing Season. 

AT  last  the  night  came.  Hot  ?  Oh,  my,  hot  it  was ! 
and  we  were  so  crowded  in  our  tiny  dressing-room 
that  some  of  us  had  to  stand  on  the  one  chair  while 
we  put  our  skirts  on.  The  confusion  was  great,  and  I  was 
glad  to  get  out  of  the  room,  down-stairs,  where  I  went  to 
show  myself  to  Mrs.  Bradshaw  or  Blanche,  to  see  if  I  was 
all  right.  They  looked  at  me,  and  after  a  hopeless  strug- 
gle with  their  quivering  faces  they  burst  into  shrieks  of 
laughter.  With  trembling  hands  I  clutched  my  tarlatan 
skirts  and  peering  down  at  my  tights,  I  groaned :  "  Are 
they  twisted,  or  run  down,  or  what  ?  " 

But  it  was  not  the  tights,  it  was  my  face.  I  knew  you 
had  to  put  on  powder  because  the  gas  made  you  yellow, 
and  red  because  powder  made  you  ghastly,  but  it  had 
not  occurred  to  me  that  skill  was  required  in  applying  the 
same,  and  I  was  a  sight  to  make  any  kindly  disposed 
angel  weep!  I  had  not  even  sense  enough  to  free  my 
eyelashes  from  the  powder  clinging  to  them.  My  face 
was  chalk  white  and  low  down  on  my  cheeks  were  nice 
round  bright  red  spots. 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  said :  "  With  your  round  blue  eyes  and 
your  round  white-and-red  face,  you  look  like  a  cheap  china 
doll !  Come  here,  my  dear !  " 

She  dusted  off  a  few  thicknesses  of  the  powder,  re- 
moved the  hard  scarlet  spots,  took  a  great  soft  hare's  foot, 
which  she  rubbed  over  some  pink  rouge,  and  then  hold- 
ing it  in  the  air  she  proceeded :  "  To-morrow,  after  you 
have  walked  to  get  a  color,  go  to  your  glass  and  see  where 
that  color  shows  itself.  I  think  you  will  find  it  high 
on  your  cheek,  coming  up  close  under  the  eye  and  grow- 

25 


26  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

ing  fainter  toward  the  ear.  I'll  paint  you  that  way  to- 
night on  chance.  You  see  my  color  is  low  on  my  cheek. 
Of  course  when  you  are  making-up  for  a  character  part 
you  go  by  a  different  rule,  but  when  you  are  just  trying 
to  look  pretty  be  guided  by  nature.  Now 

I  felt  the  soft  touch  of  the  hare's  foot  on  my  burning 
cheeks;  then  she  gave  me  a  tooth-brush,  which  had 
black  on  it,  and  bade  me  draw  it  across  my  lashes.  I 
did  so  and  was  surprised  at  the  amount  of  powder  it 
removed.  She  touched  her  little  finger  to  some  red 
pomade,  and  said :  "  Thrust  out  your  under  lip  —  no, 
not  like  a  kiss  —  that  makes  creases  —  make  a  sulky  lip 
—  so!" 

She  touched  my  lip  with  her  finger,  then  she  drew  back 
and  laughed  again,  in  a  different  way.  She  drew  me  to 
the  glass,  and  said,  "  Look !  " 

I  looked  and  cried :  "  Oh  —  oh !  Mrs.  Bradshaw,  that 
girl  doesn't  look  a  bit  like  me  —  she's  ever  so  much 
nicer!" 

In  that  lesson  on  making-up  was  the  beginning  and  the 
ending  of  my  theatrical  instruction.  What  I  have  learned 
since  then  has  been  by  observation,  study,  and  direct  in- 
quiry—  but  never  by  instruction,  either  free  or  paid  for. 

Now,  while  I  was  engaged  to  go  on  with  the  crowd, 
fate  willed  after  all  that  I  should  have  an  independent  en- 
trance for  my  first  appearance  on  the  stage.  The  matter 
would  be  too  trivial  to  mention  were  it  not  for  the  in- 
fluence it  had  upon  my  future.  One  act  of  the  play 
represented  the  back  of  a  stage  during  a  performance. 
The  scenes  were  turned  around  with  their  unpainted  sides 
to  the  public.  The  scene-shifters  and  gas-men  were 
standing  about  —  everything  was  going  wrong.  The 
manager  was  giving  orders  wildly,  and  then  a  dancer  was 
late.  She  was  called  frantically  and  finally  when  she  ap- 
peared on  the  run,  the  manager  caught  her  by  the  shoul- 
ders, rushed  her  across  the  stage  and  fairly  pitched  her 
on  the  imaginary  stage  —  to  the  great  amusement  of  the 
audience. 


IMPROMPTU   SUBSTITUTING        27 

The  tallest  and  prettiest  girl  in  the  ballet  had  been 
picked  out  to  do  this  bit  of  work,  and  she  had  been  re- 
hearsed and  rehearsed  as  if  she  were  preparing  for  the 
balcony  scene  of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet " ;  and  day  after  day 
the  stage-manager  would  groan :  "  Can't  you  run  ?  Did 
you  never  run?  Imagine  the  house  a-fire  and  that  you 
are  running  for  your  life !  " 

At  last,  on  that  opening  night,  we  were  all  gathered 
ready  for  our  first  entrance  and  dance,  which  followed 
a  few  moments  after  the  incident  I  have  described.  The 
tall  girl  had  a  queer  look  on  her  face  as  she  stood  in  her 
place  —  her  cue  came,  but  she  never  moved. 

I  heard  the  rushing  footsteps  of  the  stage-manager: 
'  That's  you !  "  he  shouted ;  "  go  on !  go  on,  run !  " 

Run  ?  She  seemed  to  have  grown  fast  to  the  floor.  We 
heard  the  angry  aside  of  the  actor  on  the  stage :  "  Send 
someone  on  here  —  for  Heaven's  sake !  " 

"  Are  you  going  on  ?  "  cried  the  frantic  prompter. 

She  dropped  her  arms  limply  at  her  sides  and  whis- 
pered: "I  —  I  —  c-a-n-t!" 

He  turned,  and  as  he  ran  his  imploring  eye  over  the 
line  of  faces,  each  girl  shrank  back  from  it.  He  reached 
me  —  I  had  no  fear,  and  he  saw  it.  "  Can  you  go  on 
there?"  he  cried.  I  nodded.  "Then  for  God's  sake 
go!" 

I  gave  a  bound  and  a  rush  that  carried  me  half  across 
the  stage  before  the  manager  caught  me  —  and  so  I  made 
my  entrance  on  the  stage,  and  danced  and  marched  and 
sang  with  the  rest,  and  all  unconsciously  took  my  first 
step  upon  the  path  that  I  was  to  follow  through  shadow 
and  through  sunshine  —  to  follow  by  steep  and  stony 
places,  over  threatening  bogs,  through  green  and  pleasant 
meadows  —  to  follow  steadily  and  faithfully  for  many 
and  many  a  year  to  come. 

On  our  first  salary  day,  to  the  surprise  of  all  concerned, 
I  did  not  go  to  claim  my  week's  pay.  To  everyone  who 
spoke  to  me  of  the  matter,  I  simply  answered :  "  Oh,  that 
will  be  all  right."  When  the  second  day  came  I  was 


28  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

the  last  to  present  myself  at  the  box-office  window.  Mr. 
Ellsler  was  there  and  he  opened  the  door  and  asked  me 
to  come  in.  As  I  signed  my  name  on  the  salary  list  I 
hesitated  perceptibly  and  he  laughingly  said :  "  Don't  you 
know  your  own  name  ?  "  Now  on  the  first  day  of  all, 
when  the  stage-manager  had  taken  down  our  names,  I 
had  been  gazing  at  the  scenery  and  when  he  called  out: 
"  Little  girl,  what  is  your  name  ?  "  I  had  not  heard,  and 
someone  standing  by  had  said :  "  Her  name  is  Clara  — 
Clara  Morris,  or  Morrisey,  or  Morrison,  or  something  like 
that,"  and  he  dropped  the  last  syllable  from  my  name 
Morrison,  and  wrote  me  down  Morris;  so  when  Mr. 
Ellsler  put  his  question,  "  Don't  you  know  your  name?  " 
that  was  certainly  the  moment  when  I  should  have  spoken 
—  but  I  was  too  shy,  and  there  and  thereafter  held  my 
peace,  and  have  been  in  consequence  Clara  Morris  ever 
since. 

I  having  signed  for  and  received  my  two  weeks'  salary, 
Mr.  Ellsler  asked  why  I  had  not  come  the  week  before, 
and  I  told  him  I  preferred  to  wait  because  it  would  seem 
so  much  more  if  I  got  both  weeks'  salary  all  at  one  time. 
And  he  gravely  nodded  and  said  "  it  was  rather  a  large 
sum  to  have  in  hand  at  one  time  "  —  and,  though  I  was 
very  sensitive  to  ridicule,  I  did  not  suspect  him  of  mak- 
ing fun  of  me. 

Then  he  said :  "  You  are  a  very  intelligent  little  girl, 
and  when  you  went  on  alone  and  unrehearsed  the  other 
night  you  proved  you  had  both  adaptability  and  courage. 
I'd  like  to  keep  you  in  the  theatre.  Will  you  come  and 
be  a  regular  member  of  the  company  for  the  season  that 
begins  in  September  next  ?  " 

I  think  it  must  have  been  my  ears  that  finally  stopped 
my  ever-widening  smile  while  I  made  answer  that  I 
must  ask  my  mother  first. 

:e  To  be  sure,"  said  he,  "  to  be  sure !     Well,  suppose 
you  ask  her,  then,  and  let  me  know  whether  you  can 
or  not." 
,   Looking  back   and   speaking   calmly,    I    must   admit 


MY   FIRST   EARNINGS  29 

that  I  do  not  now  believe  that  Mr.  Ellsler's  financial 
future  depended  entirely  upon  the  yes  or  no  of  my 
mother  and  myself;  but  that  I  was  on  an  errand  of  life 
or  death  everyone  must  have  thought  who  saw  me  tear- 
ing through  the  streets  on  that  9<>in-the-shade  summer 
day,  racing  along  in  a  whirl  of  short  skirts,  with  the 
boyish,  self-kicking  gait  peculiar  to  running  girls  of 
thirteen. 

One  man,  a  tailor,  ran  out  hatless  and  coatless  and 
looked  up  the  street  anxiously  in  the  direction  from 
which  I  came.  A  big  boy  on  the  corner  yelled  after 
me :  "  S-a-a-y,  Sis,  where's  the  fire  ?  "  but  you  see  they 
did  not  know  that  I  was  carrying  home  my  first  earn- 
ings—  that  I  was  clutching  six  damp  one-dollar  bills  in 
the  hands  that  had  been  so  empty  all  my  life!  Poor 
little  hands  that  had  never  held  a  greater  sum  than  one 
big  Canadian  penny,  that  had  never  held  a  dollar  bill 
till  they  had  first  earned  it.  But  if  the  boy  was  blind 
to  what  I  held,  so  was  I  blind  to  what  the  future  held  — 
which  made  us  equal. 

I  had  meant  to  take  off  my  hat  and  smooth  my  hair, 
and  in  a  decorous  and  proper  manner  approach  my 
mother  and  deliver  my  nice  little  speech,  and  then  hand 
her  the  money.  But,  alas !  as  I  rushed  into  the  house  I 
came  upon  her  unexpectedly  —  for,  fearing  dinner  was 
going  to  be  late,  she  was  hurrying  things  by  shelling  a 
great  basket  of  peas  as  she  sat  by  the  dining-room  win- 
dow. At  sight  of  her  tired  face,  all  my  nicely  planned 
speech  disappeared.  I  flung  my  arm  about  her  neck, 
dropped  the  bills  on  top  of  the  empty  pods,  and  cried 
with  beautiful  lucidity':  "Oh,  mother!  that's  mine  — 
and  it's  all  yours !  " 

She  kissed  me,  but  to  my  grieved  amazement  put  the 
money  back  into  my  hand,  folding  my  four  stiff,  un- 
willing fingers  over  it,  as  she  said :  "  No,  you  have 
earned  this  money  yourself  —  you  are  the  only  one  who 
has  the  right  to  use  it  —  you  are  to  do  with  it  exactly 
as  you  please." 


30  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

And  while  tears  of  disappointment  were  yet  swim- 
ming in  my  eyes,  triumph  sprang  up  in  my  heart  at 
her  last  words;  for  if  I  could  do  exactly  as  I  pleased, 
why,  after  all,  she  should  have  the  new  summer  dress 
she  needed  so  badly.  So  I  took  the  money  to  our  room, 
and  having  secreted  it  in  the  most  intricate  and  involved 
manner  I  could  think  of,  I  returned  and  laid  Mr.  Ellsler's 
offer  before  my  mother,  who  at  first  hesitated,  but  learn- 
ing that  Mrs.  Bradshaw  was  engaged  for  another  sea- 
son, she  finally  consented,  and  I  rushed  back  to  the 
theatre,  where,  red  and  hot  and  out  of  breath,  I  was  en- 
gaged for  the  ballet  for  the  next  season.  After  this  I 
was  conscious  of  a  new  feeling,  which  I  would  have 
found  it  very  hard  to  explain  then.  It  was  not  impor- 
tance, it  was  not  vanity,  it  was  a  pleasant  feeling,  it  lifted 
the  head  and  gave  one  patience  to  bear  calmly  many 
things  that  had  been  very  hard  to  bear.  I  know  now  it  was 
the  self-respect  that  comes  to  everyone  who  is  a  bread- 
winner. 

Directly  after  breakfast  next  day  I  was  off  to  get 
my  mother's  dress.  I  went  quite  alone,  and  my  head 
was  well  in  the  air;  for  this  was  indeed  an  important 
occasion.  I  looked  long  and  felt  gravely  at  the  edges 
of  the  goods,  I  did  not  know  what  for,  but  I  had  seen 
other  people  do  it,  and  when  my  lavender-flowered  muslin 
was  cut  off,  done  up  and  paid  for,  I  found  quite  a  large 
hole  in  my  six  dollars;  for  it  was  war  time,  and  any- 
thing made  of  cotton  cost  a  dreadful  price.  But,  good 
Heaven !  how  happy  I  was,  and  how  proud  that  I  should 
get  a  dress  for  my  mother,  instead  of  her  getting  one  for 
me !  Undoubtedly,  had  there  been  a  fire  just  then,  I  would 
have  risked  my  life  to  save  that  flowered  muslin  gown. 

I  had  not  been  more  than  two  or  three  days  in  the 
theatre  when  I  discovered  that  its  people  seemed  to  be 
divided  into  two  distinct  parties  —  the  guyers  and  the 
guyed  —  those  who  laughed  and  those  who  were  laughed 
at.  All  my  life  I  have  had  a  horror  of  practical  joking, 
and  I  very  quickly  decided  I  would  not  be  among  the 


WOULDN'T   BE   "GUYED"  31 

guyed.  I  had  borrowed  many  of  Mrs.  Bradshaw's  play 
books  to  read,  and  often  found  in  the  directions  for  cos- 
tumes the  old  word  "  ibid."  "  Count  Rudolph  —  black 
velvet  doublet,  hose  and  short  cloak.  Count  Adolph, 
ibid."  So  when  the  property-man,  an  incorrigible  ^joker, 
asked  me  to  go  home  and  borrow  Mrs.  Bradshaw's  ibid 
for  him,  I  simply  looked  at  him  and  smiled  a  broad, 
silent  smile  and  never  moved  a  peg.  He  gave  me  a 
sharp  look,  then  affecting  great  anger  at  my  laziness,  he 
wrote  a  request  for  an  ibid  and  gave  it  to  the  fattest 
girl  in  the  crowd,  and  she  carried  it  to  Mrs.  Bradshaw, 
who  wrote  on  it  that  her  ibid  was  at  Mrs.  Dickson's, 
and  the  fat  girl  went  to  Mrs.  Dickson's,  who  said  she 
had  lent  it  to  Mr.  Lewis  —  so  the  poor  fat  goose  was 
kept  waddling  through  the  heat,  from  one  place  to  an- 
other, until  she  was  half  dead,  to  the  great  enjoyment  of 
the  property-man. 

Next  day  he  was  very  busy,  when,  glancing  up,  he 
saw  me  looking  on  at  his  work.  Instantly  he  caught 
up  a  bottle,  and  said :  "  Run  upstairs  to  the  paint- frame 
(three  flights  up)  and  ask  the  painter  to  put  a  little 
ad-libitum  in  this  bottle  for  me  —  there's  a  good  girl ! " 

Now  I  did  not  yet  know  what  ad-libitum  meant,  but 
I  was  a  very  close  observer,  and  I  saw  the  same  malicious 
twinkle  in  his  eye  that  had  shone  there  when  he  had 
sent  the  fat  girl  on  her  hot  journey,  and  once  more  I 
slowly  chewed  my  gum,  and  smiled  my  wide,  unbelieving 
smile.  He  waited  a  moment,  but  as  I  did  not  touch  the 
bottle  he  tossed  it  aside,  saying :  "  What  a  suspicious 
little  devil  you  are !  " 

But  when  a  man  wanted  me  to  blow  down  a  gun- 
barrel  next  morning,  the  property-man  exclaimed : 
"  Here,  you !  let  saucer-eyes  alone !  I  don't  know  whether 
she  gets  her  savey  out  of  her  head  or  chews  it  out  of 
her  gum,  but  she  don't  guy  worth  a  cent,  so  you  needn't 
try  to  put  anything  on  to  her !  " 

And  from  that  day  to  this  I  have  been  free  from  the 
attacks  of  the  practical  joker. 


CHAPTER   SIXTH 

The  Regular  Season  Opens  —  I  have  a  Small  Part  to 
Play  —  I  am  among  Lovers  of  Shakespeare  —  I  too 
Stand  at  his  Knee  and  Fall  under  the  Charm. 

UP  to  this  time  the  only  world  I  had  known  had  been 
narrow  and  sordid  and  lay  chill  under  the  shadow 
of  poverty ;  and  it  is  sunlight  that  makes  the  earth 
smile  into  flower  and  fruit  and  laugh  aloud  through  the 
throats  of  birds.  But  now,  standing  humbly  at  the  knee 
of  Shakespeare,  I  began  to  learn  something  of  another 
world  —  fairy-like  in  fascination,  marvellous  in  reality. 
A  world  of  sunny  days  and  jewelled  nights,  of  splendid 
palaces,  caves  of  horror,  forests  of  mystery,  and  meadows 
of  smiling  candor.  All  peopled,  too,  with  such  soldiers, 
statesmen,  lovers,  clowns,  such  women  of  splendid  chill 
chastity,  fierce  ambition,  thistle-down  lightness,  and 
burning,  tragic  love  as  made  the  heart  beat  fast  to  think 
of. 

Perhaps  if  I  had  attempted  simply  to  read  Shakespeare 
at  that  time,  I  might  have  fallen  short  both  in  profit  and 
in  pleasure;  but  it  was  the  hearing  him  that  roused  my 
attention.  There  was  such  music  in  the  sound  of  the 
words,  that  the  mind  was  impelled  to  study  out  their 
meaning.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  human  voice  is  to  poetry 
what  a  clear  even  light  is  to  a  reader,  making  each  word 
give  up  its  full  store  of  meaning. 

At  that  time  Forrest,  crowned  and  wrapped  in  royal 
robes,  was  yet  tottering  on  his  throne.  Charlotte  Cush- 
man  was  the  Tragic  Queen  of  the  stage.  Mr.  James  Mur- 
doch, frail  and  aging,  but  still  acting,  was  highly  esteemed. 
Joseph  Jefferson,  E.  L.  Davenport,  J.  K.  Hackett,  Edwin 
Adams,  John  E.  Owens,  Dan.  Setchell,  Peter  Richings 
and  his  daughter  Caroline,  Mrs.  D.  P.  Bowers,  Miss 

32 


EARLY   AMERICAN   ACTORS         33 

Lucille  Western,  Miss  Maggie  Mitchell,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Conway,  Matilda  Heron,  Charles  Couldock,  Joseph  Proc- 
tor, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Albaugh,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barney  Will- 
iams, the  Webb  Sisters,  Kate  Reynolds,  were  all  great 
favorites,  not  pausing  to  mention  many  more,  while  Edwin 
Booth,  the  greatest  light  of  all,  was  rising  in  golden  glory 
in  the  East. 

Of  the  above-mentioned  twenty-eight  stars,  eighteen 
acted  in  Shakespeare's  plays.  All  stars  played  a  week's 
engagement  —  many  played  two  weeks,  therefore  at  least 
twenty-four  of  our  forty-two  week  season  was  given  over 
to  Shakespearean  productions,  and  every  actor  and  actress 
had  the  Bard  at  their  tongue's  tip. 

In  the  far  past  the  great  disgrace  of  our  profession  was 
the  inebriety  of  its  men.  At  the  time  I  write  of,  the  sever- 
ity of  the  managers  had  nearly  eradicated  the  terrible 
habit,  and  I  never  saw  but  two  of  that  class  of  brilliant 
actor-drunkards,  beloved  of  newspaper  story  writers,  who 
made  too  much  of  their  absurd  vagaries. 

Looking  back  to  the  actors  of  '65,  I  can't  help  noticing 
the  difference  between  their  attitude  of  mind  toward  their 
profession,  and  that  of  the  actor  of  to-day.  Salaries  were 
much  smaller  then,  work  was  harder,  but  life  was  simpler. 
The  actor  had  no  social  standing;  he  was  no  longer  looked 
down  upon,  but  he  was  an  unknown  quantity ;  he  was,  in 
short,  an  actor  pure  and  simple.  He  had  enthusiasm  for 
his  profession  —  he  lived  to  act,  not  merely  living  by  act- 
ing. He  had  more  superstition  than  religion,  and  no 
politics  at  all;  but  he  was  patriotic  and  shouldered  his  gun 
and  marched  away  in  the  ranks  as  cheerfully  as  any  other 
citizen  soldier. 

But  above  all  and  beyond  all  else,  the  men  and  women 
respected  their  chosen  profession.  Their  constant  associa- 
tion of  mind  with  Shakespeare  seemed  to  have  given 
them  a  certain  dignity  of  bearing  as  well  as  of  speech. 

To-day  our  actors  have  in  many  cases  won  some  social 
recognition,  and  they  must  therefore  give  a  portion  of 
their  time  to  social  duties.  They  are  clubmen  and  another 


34  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

portion  of  their  time  goes  in  club  lounging.  They  draw 
large  salaries  and  too  frequently  they  have  to  act  in  long 
running  plays,  that  are  made  up  of  smartish  wit  and  cheap- 
est cynicism  —  mere  froth  and  frivolity,  while  the  effective 
smashing  of  the  Seventh  Commandment  has  been  for  so 
long  a  time  the  principal  motif  of  both  drama  and  farce, 
that  one  cannot  wonder  much  at  the  general  tone  of  flip- 
pancy prevailing  among  the  theatrical  people  of  to-day. 
They  guy  everything  and  everybody,  and  would  jeer  at 
their  profession  as  readily  as  they  would  at  an  old  man  on 
the  street  wearing  a  last  year's  hat. 

They  are  sober,  they  are  honest,  they  are  generous,  but 
they  seem  to  have  grown  utterly  flippant,  and  I  can't  help 
wondering  if  this  alteration  can  have  come  about  through 
the  change  in  their  mental  pabulum. 

At  all  events,  as  I  watched  and  listened  in  the  old  days, 
it  seemed  to  me  they  were  never  weary  of  discussing  read- 
ings, expressions,  emphasis,  and  action.  One  would  re- 
mark, say  at  a  rehearsal  of  "  Hamlet,"  that  Macready 
gave  a  certain  line  in  this  manner,  and  another  would  in- 
stantly express  a  preference  for  a  Forrest  —  or  a  Daven- 
port —  rendering,  and  then  the  argument  would  be  on, 
and  only  a  call  to  the  stage  would  end  the  weighing  of 
words,  the  placing  of  commas,  etc. 

I  well  remember  my  first  step  into  theatrical  con- 
troversy. "  Macbeth  "  was  being  rehearsed,  and  the  star 
had  just  exclaimed:  "  Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  out- 
ward walls !  "  That  was  enough  —  argument  was  on.  It 
grew  animated.  Some  were  for :  "  Hang  out  our  ban- 
ners! on  the  outward  walls  the  cry  is  still:  they  come!  " 
while  one  or  two  were  with  the  star's  reading. 

I  stood  listening  and  looking  on  and  fairly  sizzling  with 
hot  desire  to  speak,  but  dared  not  take  the  liberty,  I  stood 
in  such  awe  of  my  elders.  Presently  the  "old-man" 
turned  and,  noticing  my  eagerness,  laughingly  said: 
"  Well,  what  is  it,  Clara  ?  you'll  have  a  fit  if  you  don't 
ease  your  mind  with  speech." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Dick,"  I  answered,  my  words  fairly  trip- 


MY   OPINION   IS   ASKED  35 

ping  over  each  other  in  my  haste.  "  I  have  a  picture 
home,  I  cut  it  out  of  a  paper,  it's  a  picture  of  a  great  castle, 
with  towers  and  moats  and  things,  and  on  the  outer  walls 
there  are  men  with  spears  and  shields,  and  they  seem  to 
be  looking  for  the  enemy,  and,  Uncle  Dick,  the  banner  is 
floating  over  the  high  tower!  " 

"  Where  it  ought  to  be,"  interpolated  the  old  gentleman, 
who  was  English. 

"  So,"  I  went  on,  "  don't  you  think  it  ought  to  be  read: 
'  Hang  out  our  banners !  on  the  outward  walls '  —  the 
outward  walls,  you  know,  is  where  the  lookout  are  stand- 
ing —  '  the  cry  —  is  still,  they  come ! ' 

A  general  laugh  followed  my  excited  explanation,  but 
Uncle  Dick  patted  me  very  kindly  on  the  shoulder,  and 
said :  "  Good  girl !  you  stick  to  your  picture  —  it's  right 
and  so  are  you.  Many  people  read  the  line  that  way,  but 
you  have  worked  it  out  for  yourself,  and  that's  a  good 
plan  to  follow." 

And  I  swelled  and  swelled,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  was  so 
proud  of  the  gentle  old  man's  approval.  But  that  same 
night  I  came  quite  wofully  to  grief.  I  had  been  one  of 
the  crowd  of  "  witches  " ;  I  had  also  had  my  place  at  that 
shameless  papier-mache  banquet  given  by  Macbeth  to  his 
tantalized  guests,  and  then,  being  off  duty,  was,  as  us- 
ual, planted  in  the  entrance,  watching  the  acting  of  the 
grown-up  and  the  grown-great.  Lady  Macbeth  was  giv- 
ing the  sleep-walking  scene.  Her  method  was  of  the  old, 
old  school.  She  spoke  at  almost  the  full  power  of  her 
lungs,  throughout  that  mysterious,  awe-inspiring  sleep- 
walking scene.  It  jarred  upon  my  feelings  —  I  could  not 
have  told  why,  but  it  did.  I  believed  myself  alone,  and 
when  the  memory-haunted  woman  roared  out :  "  Yet,  who 
would  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much 
blood  in  him?  "  I  remarked,  sotto  voce:  "  Did  you  ex- 
pect to  find  ink  in  him  ?  " 

A  sharp  "  ahem !  "  right  at  my  shoulder  told  me  I  had 
been  overheard,  and  I  turned  to  face  —  oh,  horror!  the 
stage-manager.  He  glared  angrily  at  me,  and  began: 


36  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

"  Since  when  have  the  ladies  of  the  ballet  taken  to  criti- 
cising the  work  of  the  stars  ?  " 

Humbly  enough,  I  said :  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I 
was  just  talking  to  myself,  that  was  all." 

But  he  went  on :  "  Oh,  you  would  not  criticize  a  read- 
ing, unless  you  could  better  it  —  so  pray  favor  us  with 
your  ideas  on  this  speech !  " 

Each  sneering  word  cut  me  to  the  heart.  Tears  filled 
my  eyes.  I  struggled  hard  to  keep  them  from  falling, 
while  I  just  murmured:  "  I  beg  your  pardon!  "  Again 
he  demanded  my  reading,  saying  they  were  not  "  too 
old  to  learn,"  and  in  sheer  desperation,  I  exclaimed:  "  I 
was  only  speaking  to  myself,  but  I  thought  Lady  Macbeth 
was  amazed  at  the  quantity  of  blood  that  flowed  from  the 
body  of  such  an  old  man  —  for  when  you  get  old,  you 
know,  sir,  you  don't  have  so  much  blood  as  you  used  to, 
and  I  only  just  thought,  that  as  the  '  sleeping  men  were 
laced/  and  the  knives  '  smeared,'  and  her  hands  '  bathed  ' 
with  it,  she  might  have  perhaps  whispered:  'Yet,  who 
would  hav/e  thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much 
blood  in  him?'  I  didn't  mean  an  impertinence!"  and 
down  fell  the  tears,  for  I  could  not  talk  and  hold  them 
back  at  the  same  time. 

He  looked  at  me  in  dead  silence  for  a  few  moments,,  then 
he  said :  "  Humph !  "  and  walked  away,  while  I  rushed 
to  the  dressing-room  and  cried  and  cried,  and  vowed  that 
never,  never  again  would  I  talk  to  myself  —  in  the  theatre 
at  all  events.  I  mention  these  incidents  to  show  how 
quickly  I  came  under  the  influence  of  these  Shakespeare- 
studying  men  and  women,  some  of  whom  had  received 
their  very  adequate  education  from  him  alone. 

It  was  odd  to  hear  how  they  used  his  words  and  expres- 
sions in  their  daily  conversation.  'Twas  not  so  much 
quoting  him  intentionally,  as  it  was  an  unconscious  incor- 
poration into  their  own  language  of  Shakespeare's  lines. 

Tramps  were  to  them  almost  always  "  vagrom  men." 
When  one  did  some  very  foolish  thing,  he  almost  surely 
begged  to  be  "  written  down  an  ass."  The  appearance  of 


UNCONSCIOUS   IMITATION          37 

a  pretty  actress  in  her  new  spring  or  fall  gown  was  as 
surely  hailed  with:  "  The  riches  of  the  ship  have  come  on 
shore!" 

I  saw  a  pet  dog  break  for  the  third  time  from  restraint 
to  follow  his  master,  who  put  his  hand  on  the  animal's 
head  and  rather  worriedly  remarked :  "  '  The  love  that  fol- 
lows us  sometimes  is  our  trouble  —  which  still '  "  (with  a 
big  sigh)  "  *  we  thank  as  love! '  But  you'll  have  to  go 
back,  old  fellow,  all  the  same."  If  someone  obliged  you, 
and  you  expressed  the  fear  that  you  had  given  him 
trouble,  he  would  be  absolutely  certain  to  reply,  pleas- 
antly and  quite  honestly :  "  The  labor  we  delight  in 
physics  pain !  "  And  so  on  and  on  unendingly.  And  I  al- 
most believe  that  had  an  old  actor  seen  these  three  great 
speeches:  The  "seven  ages"  of  man,  "To  be  or  not  to 
be!"  and  "Othello's  occupation's  gone,"  grouped  to- 
gether, he  would  have  fallen  upon  his  knees  and  become 
an  idolater  there  and  then. 

Yes,  I  found  them  odd  people,  but  I  liked  them.  The 
world  was  brightening  for  me,  and  I  felt  I  had  a  right  to 
my  share  of  the  air  and  light,  and  as  much  of  God's  earth 
as  my  feet  could  stand  upon. 

I  had  had  a  little  part  entrusted  to  me,  too,  the  very  first 
week  of  the  season.  A  young  backwoods-boy,  Tom 
Bruce,  by  name,  and  I  had  borrowed  some  clothes  and 
had  slammed  about  with  my  gun,  and  spoken  my  few 
words  out  loud  and  clear,  and  had  met  with  approving 
looks,  if  not  words,  but  not  yet  was  the  actress  aroused  in 
me,  I  was  still  a  mere  school-girl  reciting  her  lessons. 
My  proudest  moment  had  been  when  I  was  allowed  to  go 
on  for  the  longest  witch  in  the  cauldron  scene  in  "  Mac- 
beth." Perhaps  I  might  have  come  to  grief  over  it  had 
I  not  overheard  the  leading  man  say:  "That  child  will 
never  speak  those  lines  in  the  world!"  and  the  leading 
man  was  six  feet  tall  and  handsome,  and  I  was  thirteen 
and  a  half  years  old,  and  had  to  be  called  a  "  child !  " 

I  was  in  a  secret  rage,  and  I  went  over  and  over  my 
lines,  at  all  hours,  under  all  kinds  of  circumstances,  so  that 


38  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

nothing  should  be  able  to  frighten  me  at  night.  And  then, 
with  my  paste-board  crown  and  white  sheet  and  petticoat, 
I  boiled-up  in  the  cauldron  and  gave  my  lines  well  enough 
for  the  manager  (who  was  Hecate  just  then)  to  say  low, 
"  Good !  Good !  "  and  the  leading  man  next  night  asked 
me  to  take  care  of  his  watch  and  chain  during  his  combat 
scene,  and  my  pride  of  bearing  was  most  unseemly,  and 
the  other  ballet-girls  loved  me  not  at  all,  for  you  see  they, 
too,  knew  he  was  six  feet  tall  and  handsome. 


CHAPTER    SEVENTH 

I  find  I  am  in  a  "Family  Theatre"  —  I  Fare  Forth 
away  from  my  Mother,  and  in  Columbus  I  Shelter 
under  the  wing  of  Mrs.  Bradshaw. 

THIS  theatre  in  which  I  found  myself  was,  in  pro- 
fessional parlance,  a  family  theatre,  a  thing  ab- 
horred by  many,  especially  by  actresses.  Not  much 
wonder  either,  for  even  as  the  green  bay  tree  flourisheth 
in  the  psalm,  so  does  nepotism  flourish  in  the  family 
theatre ;  and  when  it's  a  case  of  the  managerial  Monsieur, 
Madame,  et  Bebes  all  acting,  many  are  the  tears,  sobs, 
and  hot  words  that  follow  upon  the  absorption  by  these 
three  of  all  the  good  parts,  while  all  the  poor  ones  are 
placed  with  strictest  justice  where  they  belong.  At  that 
time  men  and  women  were  engaged  each  for  a  special 
"  line  of  business,"  and  to  ask  anyone  to  act  outside  of 
his  "  line  "  was  an  offence  not  lightly  passed  over. 

For  the  benefit  of  those  who  may  not  be  familiar  with 
theatrical  terms  of  procedure,  I  will  state  that  a  company 
was  generally  made  up  of  a  leading  man  (heroes,  of 
course),  first  old  man,  second  old  man,  heavy  man,  first 
comedian,  second  comedian,  juvenile  man,  walking  gen- 
tleman, and  utility  man. 

That  term,  "  heavy  man,"  of  course  had  no  reference 
to  the  actor's  physical  condition,  but  it  generally  implied 
a  deep  voice,  heavy  eyebrows,  and  a  perfect  willingness 
to  stab  in  the  back  or  smilingly  to  poison  the  wine  of  the 
noblest  hero  or  the  fairest  heroine  in  the  business ;  so  the 
professional  player  of  villains  was  a  heavy  man. 

The  juvenile  man  may  have  left  juvenility  far,  far  be- 
hind him  in  reality,  but  if  his  back  was  flat,  his  eyes  large 

39 


40  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

and  hair  good ;  he  would  support  old  mothers,  be  falsely 
accused  of  thefts,  and  win  wealthy  sweethearts  in  last  acts, 
with  great  eclat  —  as  juvenile  men  were  expected  to  do. 

Walking  gentlemen  didn't  walk  all  the  time;  truth  to 
tell,  they  stood  about  and  pretended  a  deep  interest  in 
other  people's  affairs,  most  of  the  time.  They  were  those 
absent  Pauls  or  Georges  that  are  talked  about  continually 
by  sweethearts  or  friends  or  irate  fathers,  and  finally  ap- 
pear just  at  the  end  of  everything,  simply  to  prove  they 
really  do  exist,  and  to  hold  a  lady's  hand,  while  the  cur- 
tain falls  on  the  characters,  all  nicely  lined  up  and  bowing 
like  toy  mandarins. 

The  utility  man  was  generally  not  a  man,  but  a  large, 
gloomy  boy,  whose  mustache  would  not  grow,  and  whose 
voice  would  crack  over  the  few  lines  he  was  invited  to 
address  to  the  public.  He  sometimes  led  mobs,  but  more 
often  made  brief  statements  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  cer- 
tain carriages  —  and  therein  laid  his  claim  to  utility. 

Then  came  the  leading  lady,  the  first  old  woman  (who 
was  sometimes  the  heavy  woman),  the  first  singing  sou- 
brette,  the  walking  ladies,  the  second  soubrette  (and  boys' 
parts),  the  utility  woman,  and  the  ladies  of  the  ballet. 
These  were  the  principal  "  lines  of  business,"  and  in  an 
artistic  sense  they  bound  actors  both  hand  and  foot;  so 
utterly  inflexible  were  they  that  the  laws  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians  seemed  blithe  and  friendly  things  in  com- 
parison. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  play  that ;  it's  not  in  my  line !  "  "  Oh, 
yes,  I  sing,  but  the  singing  don't  belong  to  my  line !  "  "I 
know,  he  looks  the  part  and  I  don't,  but  it  belongs  to 
my  line!-"  and  so,  nearly  every  week,  some  performance 
used  to  be  marred  by  the  slavish  clinging  to  these  defined 
"  lines  of  business." 

Mr.  Augustin  Daly  was  the  first  manager  who  dared  to 
ignore  the  absolute  "  line."  "  You  must  trust  my  judg- 
ment to  cast  you  for  the  characters  you  are  best  suited  to 
perform,  and  you  must  trust  my  honor  not  to  lower  or 
degrade  you,  by  casting  you  below  your  rightful  position, 


THE   FAMILY    THEATRE  41 

for  I  will  not  be  hampered  and  bound  by  any  fixed 
1  lines  of  business.' '  So  said  he  to  all  would-be  members 
of  his  company.  The  pill  was  a  trifle  bitter  in  the  swal- 
lowing1, as  most  pills  are,  but  it  was  so  wholesome  in  its 
effect  that  ere  long  other  managers  were  following  Mr. 
Daly's  example. 

But  to  return  to  our  mutton.  If  the  family  theatre  was 
disliked  by  those  who  had  already  won  recognized  posi- 
tions, it  was  at  least  an  ideal  place  in  which  a  young  girl 
could  begin  her  professional  life.  The  manager,  Mr.  John 
A.  Ellsler,  was  an  excellent  character-actor  as  well  as  a 
first  old  man.  His  wife,  Mrs.  Effie  Ellsler,  was  his  lead- 
ing woman  —  his  daughter  Effie,  though  not  out  of 
school  at  that  time,  acted  whenever  there  was  a  very  good 
part  that  suited  her.  The  first  singing  soubrette  was  the 
wife  of  the  prompter  and  the  stage-manager.  The  first 
old  woman  was  the  mother  of  the  walking  lady,  and  so  it 
came  about  that  there  was  not  even  the  pink  flush  of  a 
flirtation  over  the  first  season,  and,  though  another  season 
was  shaken  and  thrilled  through  and  through  by  the  elope- 
ment and  marriage  of  James  Lewis  with  Miss  Frankie 
Hurlburt,  a  young  lady  from  private  life  in  Cleveland,  yet 
in  all  the  years  I  served  in  that  old  theatre,  no  real  scandal 
ever  smirched  it. 

True,  one  poor  little  ballet-girl  fell  from  our  ranks  and 
was  drawn  into  that  piteous  army  of  women,  who,  with 
silk  petticoats  and  painted  cheeks,  seek  joy  in  the  bottom 
of  the  wine  cup.  Poor  little  soul!  how  we  used  to  lock 
the  dressing-room  door  and  lower  our  voices  when  we 
spoke  of  having  seen  her. 

I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  for  having  come  under 
the  influence  of  the  dear  woman  who  watched  over  me  that 
first  season  —  Mrs.  Bradshaw,  one  of  the  most  versatile, 
most  earnest,  most  devoted  actresses  I  ever  saw,  and  a 
good  woman  besides. 

She  had  known  sorrow,  trouble,  and  loss.  She  was 
widowed,  she  had  two  children  to  support  unaided,  but 
she  made  moan  to  no  one.  She  worked  early  and  late; 


42  LIFE   ON    THE   STAGE 

she  rehearsed,  studied,  acted,  mended,  and  made;  for  her 
salary  absolutely  forbade  the  services  of  a  dress-maker. 
She  had  two  gowns  a  year,  one  thick,  one  thin.  She  could 
not  herself  compute  the  age  of  her  bonnets,  so  often  were 
they  blocked  over,  or  dyed  and  retrimmed.  Yet  no  better 
appearing  woman  ever  entered  a  stage-door  than  this  ex- 
cessively neat,  well-groomed,  though  plainly  clad,  old 
actress. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  a  great  many  professional 
women  are  absolutely  without  the  sense  of  order.  Their 
irregular  hours,  their  unsettled  mode  of  life,  camping  out 
a  few  days  in  this  hotel  and  then  in  that  in  a  measure  ex- 
plain it,  but  Mrs.  Bradshaw  set  an  example  of  neat  order- 
liness that  was  well  worth  following. 

"  I  can't  see,"  she  used  to  say,  "  why  an  actress  should 
be  a  slattern." 

Then  if  anyone  murmured:  "Early  rehearsals,  great 
haste,  you  know!"  she  would  answer:  "  You  know  at 
night  the  hour  of  morning  rehearsal  —  then  get  up  fif- 
teen minutes  earlier,  and  leave  your  room  in  order.  Every- 
thing an  actress  does  is  commented  upon,  and  as  she  is 
more  or  less  an  object  of  suspicion,  her  conduct  should  be 
even  more  rigidly  correct  than  that  of  other  women." 
She  had  been  a  beauty  in  her  youth,  as  her  regular 
features  still  proclaimed,  and  though  her  figure  had  be- 
come almost  Falstarfian,  her  graceful  arm  movements  and 
the  dignity  of  her  carriage  saved  her  from  being  in  the 
slightest  degree  grotesque.  The  secret  of  her  smiling 
contentment  was  her  honest  love  for  her  work. 

We  had  one  taste  in  common  —  this  experienced  woman 
and  my  now  fourteen-year-old  self  —  books !  books !  and 
yet  books,  we  read.  I  borrowed  from  my  friends  and  she 
also  read  —  she  borrowed  from  her  friends  and  I,  too, 
read,  and  she  came  to  speak  of  them,  and  then  of  her  own 
ideas,  and  so  I  found  that  this  woman,  already  on  the  way 
to  age,  who  was  so  poor  and  hard-working,  and  had  noth- 
ing to  look  forward  to  but  work,  was  yet  cheerfully  con- 
tented, because  she  loved  the  work  —  yes,  and  honored  it, 


REMOVAL   TO   COLUMBUS          43 

and  held  her  head  high,  because  she  was  an  actress  with 
a  clean  reputation ! 

"  Study  your  lines  —  speak  them  with  exactitude,  just 
as  they  are  written!  "  she  used  to  say  to  me,  with  a  sort 
of  passion  in  her  voice. 

"  Don't  just  gather  the  idea  of  a  speech,  and  then  use 
your  own  words,  that's  an  infamous  habit.  The  author 
knew  what  he  wanted  you  to  say  —  for  God's  sake  honor 
the  poor  dead  writer's  wishes  and  speak  his  lines  exactly 
as  he  wrote  them !  If  he  says :  '  My  lord  the  carriage 
waits ! '  don't  you  go  on  and  say :  '  My  lord  the  carriage 
is  waiting ! ' 

I  almost  believe  she  would  have  fallen  in  a  dead  faint 
had  she  been  prompted,  and  to  have  been  late  to  a  re- 
hearsal would  have  been  a  shame  greater  than  she  could 
have  borne.  To  this  woman's  example,  I  owe  the  strict 
business-like  habits  of  attention  to  study  and  rehearsals 
that  have  won  so  much  praise  for  me  from  my  managers. 

Had  Mr.  Ellsler's  intention  of  taking  his  company  to 
another  city  for  a  great  part  of  the  season  been  known  in 
advance,  my  mother  would  never  have  given  consent  to 
my  membership;  but  the  season  was  three  months  old 
before  we  knew  that  we  were  to  be  transferred  to  Colum- 
bus, the  State  capital,  where  we  were  to  remain,  while  the 
Legislature  sat  in  large  arm-chairs,  passing  bad  bills,  and 
killing  good  ones,  for  some  three  months  or  more  —  at 
least  that  was  the  ordinary  citizen's  opinion  of  the  conduct 
of  the  State's  wise  men.  It  seemed  to  me  that  when  a  man 
paid  his  taxes  he  felt  he  had  purchased  the  right  to  grum- 
ble at  his  representatives  to  his  heart's  content. 

But  that  move  to  Columbus  was  a  startling  event  in  my 
life.  It  meant  leaving  my  mother  and  standing  quite 
alone.  She  was  filled  with  anxiety,  principally  for  my 
physical  welfare,  but  I  felt,  every  now  and  then,  my  grief 
and  fright  pierced  through  and  through  with  a  delicious 
thrill  of  importance.  I  was  going  to  be  just  like  a  grown- 
up, and  would  decide  for  myself  what  I  should  wear.  I 
might  even,  if  I  chose  to  become  so  reckless,  wear  my 


44  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

Sunday  hat  to  a  rehearsal;  and  when  my  cheap  little 
trunk  came,  with  C.  M.  on  the  end,  showing  it  was  my 
very  own,  I  stooped  down  and  hugged  it.  But  later, 
when  my  mother  with  a  sad  face  separated  my  garments 
from  her  own,  taking  them  from  her  trunk,  where  they 
had  always  rested  before,  I  burst  into  sobs  and  tears  of 
utter  forlornness. 

The  Columbus  trip  had  a  special  effect  upon  the  affairs 
of  the  ballet.  We  had  received  $3  a  week  salary,  but  every 
one  of  us  had  had  some  home  assistance.  Now  we  were 
going  to  a  strange  city,  and  no  one  on  earth  could  manage 
to  live  on  such  a  salary  as  that,  so  our  stipend  was  raised 
to  $5  a  week,  and  the  three  of  us  (we  were  but  three  that 
season)  set  to  work  trying  to  solve  the  riddle  of  how  a 
girl  was  to  pay  her  board-bill,  her  basket-bill,  her  wash- 
bill,  and  all  the  small  expenses  of  the  theatre  —  powder, 
paint,  soap,  hair-pins,  etc.,  to  say  nothing  at  all  of  shoes 
and  clothing  —  all  out  of  $5  a  week. 

Of  course  there  was  but  one  way  to  do  it,  and  that  was 
by  doubling-tip  and  sharing  a  room  with  some  one,  and 
that  first  season  I  was  very  lucky.  Mrs.  Bradshaw  found 
a  house  where  the  top  floor  had  been  finished  off  as  one 
great  long  room,  running  the  entire  length  of  the  building 
from  gable  to  gable,  and  she  offered  me  a  share  in  it. 

Oh,  I  was  glad !  Blanche  and  I  had  one-half  the  room, 
and  Mrs.  Bradshaw  and  the  irrepressible  little  torment  and 
joy  of  her  life,  small  Jack,  had  the  other  half.  No  wonder 
I  grew  to  reverence  her,  whose  character  could  bear  such 
intimate  association  as  that.  I  don't  know  what  her  re- 
ligious beliefs  were.  She  read  her  Bible  Sundays,  but  she 
never  went  to  church,  neither  did  she  believe  in  a  material 
hell ;  but  it  was  not  long  before  I  discovered  that  when  I 
said  my  prayers  over  in  my  corner,  she  paused  in  what- 
ever she  was  doing,  and  remained  with  downcast  eyes  •— 
a  fact  that  made  me  scramble  a  bit,  I'm  afraid. 

There  was  but  one  thing  in  our  close  companionship 
that  caused  her  pain,  and  that  was  the  inevitable  belief  of 
strangers,  that  I  was  her  daughter  and  Blanche  her  pro- 


A   NEW    "PLAYER-QUEEN"         45 

tegee  —  they  being  misled  by  the  difference  in  our  manner 
toward  her.  In  the  severity  of  my  upbringing  I  had  been 
taught  that  it  was  nothing  short  of  criminal  to  be  lacking 
in  respect  for  those  who  were  older  than  myself;  therefore 
I  was  not  only  strictly  obedient  to  her  expressed  wishes, 
but  I  rose  when  she  entered  a  room,  opened  and  closed 
doors,  placed  chairs  at  table,  gave  her  precedence  on  all 
occasions,  and  served  her  in  such  small  ways  as  were 
possible;  while  Blanche  ignored  her  to  such  a  degree  that 
one  might  have  mistaken  her  for  a  stranger  to  our  little 
party. 

Poor  mother!  the  tears  stood  thick  in  her  brave  eyes 
when  the  landlady,  on  our  third  day  in  her  house,  re- 
marked to  her,  patting  me  on  the  shoulder  as  she  spoke: 
"  You  have  a  most  devoted  little  daughter,  here!  " 

And  there  was  a  distinct  pause,  before  she  answered, 
gently:  "You  mistake  —  I  have  a  devoted  little  friend 
here,  in  Clara,  but  Blanche  is  my  daughter!"  She  was 
a  singular  being,  that  daughter.  It  is  seldom  indeed  that 
a  girl,  who  is  not  bad,  can  yet  be  such  a  thorn  in  the 
side  of  a  mother.  She  was  a  most  disconcerting,  baffling 
creature  —  a  tricksy,  elfish  spirit,  that  delighted  in  ma- 
licious fun.  Pleasure-loving,  indolent,  and  indifferent 
alike  to  praise  or  blame,  she  (incredible  as  it  seems)  would 
willingly  give  up  a  good  part  to  save  herself  the  trouble 
of  playing  it.  I  recall  a  trick  she  once  performed  in  my 
favor.  I  thought  the  Player-Queen  in  "  Hamlet "  was  a 
beautiful  part,  and  I  hungered  to  play  it ;  but  it  belonged 
to  Blanche,  and,  of  course,  she  was  cast  for  it;  but  said 
she:  "  You  could  have  it,  for  all  I'd  care!  "  Then,  sud- 
denly, she  added:  "Say,  you  may  play  it  with  the  next 
Hamlet  that  comes  along!  " 

I  pointed  out  the  impossibility  of  such  an  assertion 
coming  true,  but  she  grinned  widely  at  me  and  chewed  her 
gum  as  one  who  knew  many  things  beyond  my  ken,  and 
counselled  me  to  "  watch  out  and  see  what  happened." 
I  watched  out,  and  this  happened : 

When  the  mimic-play  was  going  on  before  the  King 


46  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

and  Court,  my  impish  friend  Blanche,  as  the  Player- 
Queen,  should  have  said :  "  Both  here  and  hence,  pursue 
me  lasting  strife,  if  once  a  widow,  ever  I  be  wife !  " 

Instead  of  which,  loudly  and  distinctly,  she  proclaimed: 
"  Both  here  and  hence,  pursue  me  lasting  strife,  if  once 
a  wife,  ever  I  be  widowed!  " 

Hamlet  rolled  over  on  his  face,  Queen  Gertrude  (Mrs. 
Bradshaw)  groaned  aloud,  Polonius  (Mr.  Ellsler)  threat-, 
ened  discharge,  under  cover  of  the  laughter  of  the  audi- 
ence, while  guilty  Blanche  grinned  in  impish  enjoyment 
of  her  work,  and  next  "  Hamlet "  I  was  cast  for  the 
Player-Queen,  to  punish  Blanche.  To  punish  her,  indeed 

—  she  was  as  merry  as  a  sand-boy,  standing  about  chew- 
ing gum  and  telling  stories  all  the  evening. 

The  "  tatting "  craze  was  sweeping  over  the  country 
then,  everybody  wore  tatting  and  almost  everybody  made 
it.  I  worked  day  and  night  at  it,  tatting  at  rehearsal 
and  between  scenes,  and  lady-stars  often  bought  my  work, 
to  my  great  pleasure  as  well  as  profit.  Blanche  wanted 
a  new  shuttle,  and  her  mother,  who  was  under  extra  ex- 
pense just  then,  told  her  she  could  have  it  the  next  week. 
It  was  shortly  before  Christmas,  and  next  morning 
at  rehearsal,  with  all  the  company  present,  Blanche 
walked  up  to  Mr.  Ellsler  and  asked  him  if  he  had  any 
money. 

He  looked  bewildered,  and  answered  somewhat  doubt- 
fully that  he  thought  he  had  a  little.  "  Well,"  said  she, 
"  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  quarter,  so  I  can  get  you  a 
Christmas  present." 

There  was  a  burst  of  laughter  as  Mr.  Ellsler  handed 
her  the  quarter,  and  after  rehearsal  this  is  what  she  did 
with  it: 

On  Superior  Street  a  clothing  store  was  being  sold  out 

—  a  forced  sale.     There  she  bought  a  black  shoe-string 
tie  for  five  cents,  as  a  gift  for  Mr.  Ellsler,  and  elsewhere 
got  for  herself  a  tatting-shuttle  and  five  pieces  of  chew- 
ing-gum, and  chuckled  over  her  caper,  quite  undisturbed 
by  her  mother's  tears. 


MR.  ELLSLER'S  PRESENT  47 

One  thing  only  moved  her,  one  thing  only  she  loved, 
music !  She  had  a  charming  voice,  clear,  pure,  and  cold 
as  crystal,  and  she  sang  willingly,  nay,  even  eagerly,  when- 
ever she  had  the  opportunity.  In  after  years  she  became 
a  well-known  singer  in  light  opera. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTH 

I  Display  my  New  Knowledge  —  I  Return  to  Cleveland 
to  Face  my  First  Theatrical  Vacation,  and  I  Know 
the  very  Tragedy  of  Littleness. 

DURING  that  first  season  I  learned  to  stand  alone, 
to  take  care  of  myself  and  my  small  belongings 
without  admonition  from  anyone.    One  of  my  no- 
tions was  that,  since  an  immortal  soul  had  to  dwell  in 
my  body,  it  became  my  bounden  duty  to  bestow  upon  it 
regular  and  painstaking  care  in  honor  of  its  tenant.    The 
idea  may  seem  extravagant,  yet  it  served  me  well,  since 
it  did  for  me  what  a  mother's  watchful  supervision  does 
for  other  little  girls  when  habits  are  being  formed. 

I  had  learned,  too,  most  of  the  technical  terms  used  in 
the  profession.  I  knew  all  about  footlights,  wings,  flies, 
borders,  drops,  braces,  grooves,  traps,  etc.  I  understood 
the  queer  abbreviations.  Knew  that  O.P.  side  was  op- 
posite the  prompt  side,  where  the  prompter  stood  with 
his  book  of  the  play  to  give  the  word  to  any  actor  whose 
memory  failed  him  and  to  ring  the  two  bells  for  the  close 
of  the  act  —  one  of  warning  to  the  curtain-man  up  aloft 
to  get  ready,  the  other  for  him  to  lower  the  curtain. 
Knew  that  R.U.E.  and  L.U.E.  were  right  or  left  upper 
entrance ;  C,  centre  of  the  stage ;  R.C.,  right  of  centre ; 
C.D.,  centre-door.  That  to  go  D.S.  or  U.S.  was  an  in- 
timation that  you  would  do  well  to  go  down  stage  or  up 
stage,  while  an  X.  to  C.  was  a  terse  request  for  you  to 
cross  to  the  centre  of  the  stage,  and  that  a  whole  lot  of 
other  letters  meant  a  whole  lot  of  other  directions  that 
would  only  bore  a  reader. 

I  understood  how  many  illusions  were  produced,  and 
one  of  the  proofs  that  I  was  meant  to  be  an  actress  was 

48 


MRS.   BRADSHAW'S   ASCENT         49 

to  be  found  in  my  enjoyment  of  the  mechanism  of  stage 
effects.  I  was  always  on  hand  when  a  storm  had  to  be 
worked,  and  would  grind  away  with  a  will  at  the  crank 
that,  turning  a  wheel  against  a  tight  band  of  silk,  made 
the  sound  of  a  tremendously  shrieking  wind,  which  rilled 
me  with  pride  and  personal  satisfaction.  And  no  one 
sitting  in  front  of  the  house  looking  at  a  white-robed 
woman  ascending  to  heaven,  apparently  floating  upward 
through  the  blue  clouds,  enjoyed  the  spectacle  more  than 
I  enjoyed  looking  at  the  ascent  from  the  rear,  where  I 
could  see  the  tiny  iron  support  for  her  feet,  the  rod  at 
her  back  with  the  belt  holding  her  securely  about  the 
waist  (just  as  though  she  were  standing  on  a  large  hoe, 
with  the  handle  at  her  back),  and  the  men  hoisting  her 
through  the  air,  with  a  painted,  sometimes  moving,  sky 
behind  her. 

This  reminds  me  that  Mrs.  Bradshaw  had  several 
times  to  go  to  heaven  (dramatically  speaking),  and  as 
her  figure  and  weight  made  the  hoe  support  useless  in 
her  case,  she  always  went  to  heaven  on  the  entire  paint- 
frame  or  gallery,  as  it  is  called  —  a  long  platform  the 
whole  width  of  the  stage  that  is  raised  and  lowered  at  will 
by  windlass,  and  on  which  the  artists  stand  while  paint- 
ing scenery.  This  enormous  affair  would  be  cleaned 
and  hung  about  with  nice  blue  clouds,  and  then  Mrs. 
Bradshaw,  draped  in  long,  white  robes,  with  hands  meekly 
crossed  upon  her  ample  breast  and  eyes  piously  uplifted, 
would  rise  heavenward,  slowly,  as  so  heavy  an  angel 
should.  But,  alas !  there  was  one  drawback  to  this  other- 
wise perfect  ascension.  Never,  so  long  as  the  theatre 
stood,  could  that  windlass  be  made  to  work  silently.  The 
paint-gallery  always  moved  up  or  down  to  a  succession 
of  screaks  unoilable,  untamable,  blood-curdling,  that  were 
intensified  by  Mrs.  Bradshaw's  weight,  so  that  she  as- 
cended to  the  blue  tarlatan  empyrean  accompanied  by  such 
chugs  and  long-drawn  yowlings  as  suggested  a  trip  to 
the  infernal  regions.  Mrs.  Bradshaw's  face  remained 
calm  and  unmoved,  but  now  and  then  an  agonized  moan 


50  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

escaped  her,  lest  even  the  orchestra's  effort  to  cover  up 
the  paint-frame's  protesting  cries  should  prove  useless. 
Poor  woman,  when  she  had  been  lowered  again  to  terra 
firma  and  stepped  off,  the  whole  paint-frame  would  give 
a  kind  of  joyous  upward  spring.  She  noticed  it,  and  one 
evening  looked  back,  and  said :  "  Oh,  you're  not  a  bit 
more  glad  than  I  am,  you  screaking  wretch !  " 

I  had  learned  to  make  up  my  face  properly,  to  dress 
my  hair  in  various  ways,  and  was  beginning  to  know 
something  about  correct  costuming;  but  as  the  season 
was  drawing  to  its  close  my  heart  quaked  and  I  was  sick 
with  fear,  for  I  was  facing,  for  the  first  time,  that  terror, 
that  affliction  of  the  actor's  life,  the  summer  vacation. 

People  little  dream  what  a  period  of  misery  that  is  to 
many  stage  folk.  Seeing  them  well  dressed,  laughing 
and  talking  lightly  with  the  acquaintances  they  meet  on 
the  street,  one  little  suspects  that  the  gnawing  pain  of 
hunger  may  be  busy  with  their  stomachs  —  that  a  wom- 
an's fainting  "  because  of  the  extreme  heat,  you  know," 
was  really  caused  by  want  of  food.  That  the  fresh  hand- 
kerchiefs are  of  their  own  washing.  That  the  garments 
are  guarded  with  almost  inconceivable  care,  and  are  only 
worn  on  the  street,  some  older  articles  answering  in  their 
lodgings  —  and  that  it  is  not  vanity,  but  business,  for  a 
manager  is  not  attracted  by  a  seedy  or  a  shabby-looking 
applicant  for  an  engagement. 

Oh,  the  weary,  weary  miles  the  poor  souls  walk !  with 
not  a  penny  in  their  pockets.  They  are  compelled  to  say, 
"  Roll  on,  sweet  chariot !  "  to  even  the  street-car  as  it 
appears  before  their  longing  eyes. 

Some  people,  mostly  men,  under  these  circumstances 
will  stand  and  look  at  the  viands  spread  out  temptingly 
in  the  restaurant  windows ;  others,  myself  among  the 
number,  will  avoid  such  places  as  one  would  avoid  a 
pestilence. 

We  were  back  in  Cleveland  for  the  last  of  the  season, 
and  I  used  to  count,  over  and  over  again,  my  tiny  sav- 
ings and  set  them  in  little  piles.  The  wash,  the  board, 


POOR   LODGINGS  51 

and,  dear  heaven !  there  were  six  long,  long  weeks  of 
vacation,  and  I  had  only  one  little  pile  of  board  money 
to  set  against  the  whole  six.  I  had  six  little  piles  of  wash 
money,  and  one  other  little  pile,  the  raison  d'etre  of 
which  I  may  explain  by  and  by,  if  I  am  not  too  much 
ashamed  of  the  early  folly. 

Now  I  was  staying  at  that  acme  of  inconvenience  and 
discomfort,  a  cheap  boarding-house,  where,  by  the  way, 
social  lines  were  drawn  with  sharp  distinction,  the  upper 
class  coldly  recognizing  the  middle  class,  but  ignoring 
the  very  existence  of  the  lower  class,  refugees  from  ig- 
noble fortune. 

Mrs.  Bradshaw,  by  right  of  dignity  and  regular  pay- 
ments for  the  best  room  in  the  house,  was  the  star-boarder, 
and  it  was  undoubtedly  her  friendship  which  raised  me 
socially  from  that  third  and  lowest  class  to  which  my 
small  payments  would  have  relegated  me. 

Standing  in  my  tiny,  closet-like  room,  by  lifting  my- 
self to  my  toes,  I  could  touch  the  ceiling.  There  was  not 
space  for  a  bureau,  but  the  yellow  wash-stand  stood  quite 
firmly,  with  the  assistance  of  a  brick,  which  made  up  for 
the  absence  of  part  of  its  off  hind  leg.  There  was  a 
kitchen-chair  that  may  have  been  of  pine,  but  my  aching 
back  proclaimed  it  lignum-vitae.  A  mere  sliver  of  a  bed 
stretched  itself  sullenly  in  the  corner,  where  its  slats, 
showing  their  outlines  through  the  meagre  bed-clothing, 
suggested  the  ribs  of  an  attenuated  cab-horse.  From 
that  bed  early  rising  became  a  pleasure  instead  of  a  mere 
duty.  Above  the  wash-stand,  in  a  narrow,  once  veneered 
but  now  merely  glue-covered  frame,  hung  a  small  look- 
ing-glass, that,  size  considered,  could,  I  believe,  do  more 
damage  to  the  human  countenance  than  could  any  other 
mirror  in  the  world.  It  had  a  sort  of  dimple  in  its  mid- 
dle, which  had  the  effect  of  scattering  one's  features  into 
the  four  corners  of  the  glass,  loosely  —  a  nose  and  eye- 
brow here,  a  mouth  yonder,  and  one's  "  altogether  "  no- 
where. 

It  was  very  disconcerting.     Blanche  said  it  made  her 


52  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

quite  sea-sick,  or  words  to  that  effect.  This  dreadful  lit- 
tle apartment  lay  snug  against  the  roof.  In  the  winter 
the  snow  sifted  prettily  but  uncomfortably  here  and  there. 
In  the  summer  the  heat  was  appalling.  Those  old-timers 
who  knew  the  house  well,  called  No.  15  the  "  torture- 
chamber,"  and  many  a  time,  during  the  fiercest  heat,  Mrs. 
Bradshaw  would  literally  drive  me  from  the  small  fiery 
furnace  to  her  own  room,  where  at  least  there  was  air  to 
breathe,  for  No.  15  had  but  half  a  window.  And  yet, 
miserable  as  this  place  was,  it  was  a  refuge  and  a  shelter. 
The  house  was  well  known,  it  was  ugly,  as  cheap  things 
are  apt  to  be,  but  it  was  respectable  and  safe,  and  I  trem- 
bled at  the  thought  of  losing  my  right  to  enter  there. 

In  the  past  my  mother  had  been  employed  by  the  land- 
lady as  seamstress  and  as  housekeeper,  besides  which  she 
had  once  nursed  the  lonely  old  woman  through  a  severe 
sickness,  and  as  I  had  been  permitted  to  live  with  my 
mother,  Mrs.  Miller  of  course  knew  me  well ;  so  one  day 
when  she  found  me  engaged  in  the  unsatisfactory  occu- 
pation of  recounting  my  money  she  asked  me,  very  gruffly, 
what  I  was  going  to  do  through  the  summer.  I  gazed 
at  her  with  wide,  frightened  eyes,  and  was  simply  dumb. 
More  sharply,  she  asked :  "  Do  you  hear  ?  —  what  are 
you  going  to  do  when  the  theatre  closes  ?  " 

I  swallowed  hard,  and  then  faintly  answered :    "  I've 

?ot  one  week's  board  saved,  Mrs.  Miller,  but  after  that 
—  I  — ,"  had  my  soul  depended  upon  the  speaking  of 
another  word  I  could  not  have  uttered  it. 

She  glared  her  most  savage  glare  at  me.  She  impa- 
tiently pushed  her  false  front  awry,  pulled  at  her  spec- 
tacles, and  finally  took  up  one  of  my  six  little  piles  of 
coin  and  asked:  "What's  this  for?" 

"  Washing,"  I  gasped. 

"  You  don't  send  your  handkerchiefs  to  the  wash,  do 
you  ?  "  she  demanded,  suspiciously. 

I  shook  my  head  and  pointed  to  a  handkerchief  drying 
on  a  string  at  my  half-window. 

"  That's  right,"  she  remarked,  in  a  slightly  mollified 


BEFRIENDED  53 

tone.  Then  she  reached  over,  took  up  the  pile  that  was 
meant  for  the  next  week's  board,  and  putting  it  in  her 
pocket,  she  remarked :  "  I'll  just  take  this  now,  so  you 
won't  run  no  risk  of  losing  it,  and  for  the  next  five  weeks 
after,  why,  well  your  mother  was  honest  before  you,  and 
I  reckon  you're  going  to  take  after  her.  You  promise 
to  be  a  hard  worker,  too,  so,  well  nobody  else  has  ever 
been  able  to  stay  in  this  room  over  a  week  —  so  I  guess 
you  can  go  on  stopping  right  here,  till  the  theatre  opens 
again,  and  you  can  pay  me  by  fits  and  starts  as  it  comes 
handy  for  you.  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you? 
Well,  I  vum !  you  must  be  clean  tuckered  out  to  cry  like 
that !  Land  sakes,  child !  tie  a  wet  rag  on  your  head  and 
lay  right  down,  till  you  can  get  picked  up  a  bit !  "  and 
out  she  bounced. 

Dear  old  raging  savage!  how  she  used  to  frighten  us 
all !  how  she  barked  and  barked,  but  she  never,  never 
bit !  How  I  wanted  to  kiss  her  withered  old  cheek  that 
day  when  she  offered  me  shelter  on  trust!  But  she  was 
eighty-five  years  old  and  my  honored  guest  here  at  "  The 
Pines  "  before  I  told  her  all  the  terror  and  the  gratitude 
she  brought  to  me  that  day. 

My  clear  skin,  bright  eyes,  and  round  face  gave  me  an 
appearance  of  perfect  health,  which  was  belied  by  the 
pain  I  almost  unceasingly  endured.  The  very  inadequate 
provision  my  poor  mother  had  been  able  to  make  for  the 
necessaries  of  her  child's  welfare,  the  cruel  restrictions 
placed  upon  my  exercise,  even  upon  movement  in  that 
wooden  chair,  where  I  sat  with  numb  limbs  five  hours 
at  a  stretch,  had  greatly  aggravated  a  slight  injury  to  my 
spine  received  in  babyhood.  And  now  I  was  facing  a 
life  of  hard  work,  handicapped  by  that  most  tenacious, 
most  cruel  of  torments,  a  spinal  trouble. 

At  fourteen  I  knew  enough  about  such  terms  as  ver- 
tebra of  the  back,  spinal-column,  spinal-cord,  sheath  of 
cord,  spinal-marrow,  axial  nervous  system,  curvatures, 
flexes  and  reflexes  to  have  nicely  established  an  energetic 
quack  as  a  specialist  in  spinal  trouble;  and,  alas!  after 


54  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

all  these  years  no  one  has  added  to  my  list  of  flexes  and 
reflexes  the  words  "  fixed  or  refixed,"  so  my  poor  spine 
and  I  go  struggling  on,  and  I  sometimes  think,  if  it  could 
speak,  it  might  declare  that  I  am  as  dented,  crooked,  and 
wavering  as  it  is.  However,  I  suppose  that  state  of  un- 
certain health  may  have  caused  the  capricious  appetite 
that  tormented  me.  Always  poor,  I  had  yet  never  been 
able  to  endure  coarse  food.  Heavy  meats,  cabbage,  tur- 
nips, beets,  fried  things  filled  me  with  cold  repulsion. 
Crackers  and  milk  formed  my  dinner,  day  in  and  day 
out.  Now  and  then  crackers  and  water  had  to  suffice 
me;  but  I  infinitely  preferred  the  latter  to  a  meal  of 
roast  pork  or  of  corned  beef,  followed  by  rice-pudding. 

But  the  trouble  from  the  fastidious  appetite  came  when 
it  suddenly  demanded  something  for  its  gratification  — 
imperiously,  even  furiously  demanded  it.  If  anyone 
desires  a  thing  intensely,  the  continual  denial  of  that 
craving  becomes  almost  a  torture.  So,  when  that  finical 
appetite  of  mine  would  suddenly  cry  out  for  oysters,  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else.  Quick  tears  would  spring 
into  my  eyes  as  I  approached  the  oysterless  table.  Again 
and  again  I  would  dream  of  them,  cans  and  cans  would 
be  piled  on  my  table  (I  lived  far  from  shell-oysters  then), 
and  when  I  awoke  I  would  turn  on  my  lumpy  bed  and 
moan  like  a  sick  animal.  I  mention  this  because  I  wish 
to  explain  what  that  little  odd  pile  of  money  had  been 
saved  for. 

At  the  approach  of  hot  weather  a  craving  for  ice-cream 
had  seized  upon  me  with  almost  agonizing  force.  It  is 
a  desire  common  to  all  young  things,  but  the  poverty  of 
my  surroundings,  the  lack  of  the  more  delicate  vegetables, 
of  fruits,  of  sweets,  added  to  the  intensity  of  my  craving. 
I  had  found  a  place  away  up  on  the  market  where  for 
ten  cents  one  could  get  quite  a  large  saucer  of  the  deli- 
cate dainty.  Fifteen  or  twenty-five  cents  was  charged 
elsewhere  for  no  better  cream,  but  a  more  decorative 
saucer. 

But,  good  gracious !  what  a  sum  of  money  —  ten  cents 


MY   FIRST    VACATION   ENDS        55 

for  a  mere  pleasure !  though  the  memory  of  it  afterward 
was  a  comfort  for  several  days,  and  then,  oh,  unfortunate 
girl !  the  sick  longing  would  come  again !  And  so,  in  a 
sort  of  despair,  I  tried  to  save  thirty  cents,  with  the  de- 
liberate intention  of  spending  the  whole  sum  on  luxury 
and  folly.  Six  long,  blazing-hot,  idle  weeks  I  should  have 
to  pass  in  the  "  torture-chamber,"  but  with  that  thirty 
cents  by  me  I  could,  every  two  weeks,  loiter  deliciously 
over  a  plate  of  cream,  feel  its  velvety  smoothness  on  my 
lips  and  its  icy  coldness  cooling  all  my  weary,  heat-worn 
body.  One  week  I  could  live  on  memory,  and  the  next 
upon  anticipation,  and  so  get  through  the  long  vacation 
in  comparative  comfort. 

There  was  no  lock  upon  my  room  door,  but  I  said 
nothing  about  it,  as  the  door  would  not  close  anyway ; 
and  at  night,  for  security,  I  placed  the  lignum-vitse  chair 
against  it.  In  the  day-time  I  had  to  entrust  my  belong- 
ings to  the  honor  of  my  house-mates,  as  it  were. 

The  six  little  piles  of  wash-money  I  had,  after  the 
manner  of  a  squirrel,  buried  here  and  there  at  the  bot- 
tom of  my  trunk,  which  I  securely  locked ;  but  my 
precious  thirty  cents  I  carried  about  with  me,  tied  in  the 
corner  of  a  handkerchief.  It  generally  rested  in  the 
bosom  of  rny  dress,  but  there  came  a  day  when,  for  econ- 
omy's sake,  I  washed  a  pair  of  stockings  as  well  as  my 
three  handkerchiefs,  and  Mrs.  Miller  said  I  might  hang 
them  on  the  line  in  the  yard  below.  My  tiny  window 
opened  in  that  direction.  The  day  was  fiercely  hot.  I 
put  the  money  in  my  pocket  and  carefully  hung  my  dress 
up  opposite  the  window,  and,  in  a  little  white  jacket,  did 
out  my  washing;  then,  singing  happily,  I  ran  down- 
stairs, two  long  flights,  to  hang  the  articles  on  the  line. 
As  I  was  putting  a  clothes-pin  in  place  I  glanced  upward 
at  the  musk-plant  on  my  window-sill  —  and  then  my 
heart  stood  still  in  my  breast.  I  could  neither  breathe 
nor  move  for  the  moment.  I  could  see  my  dress-skirt 
depending  from  its  nail,  and  oh,  dear  God!  a  man's 
great  red  hand  was  grasping  it  —  was  clutching  it,  here 


56  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

and  there,  in  search  of  the  pocket!  Suddenly  I  gave  a 
piercing  cry,  and  bounding  into  the  house,  I  tore  madly 
up  the  stairs  —  too  late.  The  dress  lay  in  the  doorway 
—  the  pocket  was  empty!  On  the  floor,  with  my  head 
against  the  white-washed  wall,  I  sat  with  closed  eyes. 
The  smell  of  a  musk-plant  makes  me  shudder  to  this 
day.  I  sat  there  stupidly  till  dusk;  then  I  crept  to  my 
sliver  of  a  bed,  and  cried,  and  cried,  and  sobbed  the  whole 
weary,  hot  night  through.  Next  day  I  simply  could  not 
rise,  and  so  for  weeks  I  dragged  heavily  up  and  down 
the  stairs,  loathing  the  very  sight  of  the  dining-room,  and 
driven  half  wild  with  that  never-sleeping  craving  for 
ice-cream. 

It  was  purgatory,  it  was  the  very  tragedy  of  littleness. 
And  that  was  my  first  theatrical  vacation. 


CHAPTER  NINTH 

The  Season  Reopens  —  I  meet  the  Yellow  Breeches  and 
become  a  Utility  Man  —  Mr.  Murdock  Escapes  Fits 
and  my  "  Luck  "  Proves  to  be  Extra  Work. 

THE  exuberance  of  my  joy  over  the  opening  of  the 
new  season  was  somewhat  modified  by  my  close 
relations  with  a  certain  pair  of  knee-breeches  — 
and  I  wish  to  say  right  here  that  when  Gail  Hamilton 
declared  inanimate  things  were  endowed  with  powers  of 
malice  and  general  mischievousness,  she  was  not  exag- 
gerating, but  speaking  strictly  by  the  card. 

Some  men  think  her  charge  was  made  solely  against 
collar-buttons,  whose  conduct  the  world  admits  is  detri- 
mental to  good  morals;  but  they  are  wrong;  she  in- 
cluded many  things  in  her  charge.  Consider  the  inno- 
cent-looking rocking-chair,  for  instance.  When  it  strikes 
does  not  the  rocker  always  find  your  ankle-joint?  In 
darkness  or  in  light  did  it  ever  miss  that  exact  spot? 
Never!  And  then  how  gently  it  will  sway,  while  you 
rear  and  stamp,  and,  with  briny  eyes,  say  —  well,  things 
you  should  not  say,  things  you  would  not  say  but  for  the 
malice  of  an  inanimate  thing. 

Perhaps  the  quickest  way  to  win  your  sympathy  is  to 
tell  you  at  once  that  those  knee-breeches  were  made  of 
yellow  plush,  bright  yellow  —  I  thought  that  would 
move  you !  There  was  a  coat,  too  —  yes,  things  can  al- 
ways be  worse,  you  see ;  and  when  I  was  crowded  into 
that  awful  livery  I  felt  like  hopping  about  in  a  search 
for  hemp-seed,  I  looked  so  like  an  enormous  canary  that 
had  outgrown  its  cage. 

Had  Gail  Hamilton  known  those  breeches  she  would 
have  said :  "  Here  is  total  depravity  in  yellow  plush !  " 

57 


58  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

You  see,  the  way  they  got  their  grip  on  me  originally 
was  this.  There  had  been  two  utility  men  engaged  for 
the  company,  but  one  of  them  was  taken  sick  and  could 
not  come  to  the  city  at  all,  and  the  other  one  made  the 
manager  sick,  and  was  discharged  for  utter  incompetency, 
and  that  very  night  there  was  required  a  male  servant 
who  could  in  the  first  act  summon  the  star  to  the  presence 
of  his  employer,  with  a  name  hard  to  pronounce ;  and  in 
the  last  act,  when  the  star  had  become  the  boss  of  the 
whole  affair,  could  announce  the  coming  of  his  carriage. 

"  Could  I  do  those  two  lines  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  I  joyfully  announced  my  ability  and  my 
willingness ;  "  but  I  had  no  clothes." 

And  then,  instead  of  turning  the  part  into  a  girl  at- 
tendant, in  an  evil  moment  the  manager  bethought  him- 
self of  some  wardrobe  he  had  purchased  from  a  broken 
up  or  down  opera  manager,  and  search  discovered  the 
yellow-plush  breeches,  coat,  and  white  wig.  I  put  them 
on  —  the  canary  was  hatched! 

I  played  the  part  of  two  announcements ;  I  walked  out 
clear  from  the  hip,  like  a  boy  —  and  I  became  the  utility 
man  of  the  company,  and  the  tormented  victim  of  the 
yellow  breeches. 

I  was  a  patient  young  person  and  willing  to  endure 
much  for  art's  sake,  but  that  wig  was  too  much.  Built  of 
white  horse-hair  mounted  upon  linen,  its  heat  and  weight 
were  fearful.  It  had  evidently  been  constructed  for  a 
big,  round,  perfectly  bumpless  head.  It  came  down  to 
my  very  eyebrows  on  top,  and  at  the  sides,  instead  of 
terminating  just  at  the  hair-line  above  the  ear,  it  swal- 
lowed up  my  ears,  covered  my  temples,  and  extended 
clear  to  my  eyes,  giving  me  the  appearance  of  being 
harnessed  up  in  large  white  blinders  —  like  a  shying 
horse.  In  common  humanity  the  manager  released  me 
from  the  wig  and  let  me  wear  powder,  but  the  clutch 
of  the  yellow  breeches  remained  unbroken. 

As  in  their  opera  days  (I  don't  know  what  they  sang, 
but  they  were  probably  in  the  chorus)  they  had  wan- 


MY  YELLOW  PLUSH  BREECHES     59 

dered  through  the  world,  knowing  all  continental  Europe 
and  the  South  Americas,  so  now  they  wandered  through 
dramatic  literature.  One  night  accompanying  me  on  to 
deliver  a  note  to  Madame  de  Pompadour,  the  next  night 
those  same  yellow  breeches  and  I  skipped  back  to  Louis 
XIV.,  and  admitted  many  lords  and  ladies,  with  tongue- 
tying  names,  to  that  monarch's  presence,  only  to  skip 
forward  again,  in  a  few  days,  to  bring  in  mail-bags  to 
snuffy  rural  gentry,  under  almost  any  of  the  Georges. 
Though  the  lace  ruffles  and  jabots  of  the  French  period 
might  give  place  to  a  plain  red  waistcoat  for  the  Georgian 
English  household,  the  canary  breeches  were  always 
there,  ready  to  burst  into  song  at  any  moment,  to  basely 
fire  off  a  button  or  break  a  buckle  just  at  the  moment  of 
my  entrance-cue,  treacherously  suggesting,  by  their  easy 
wrinkling  while  I  stood,  that  I  might  just  as  well  sit  down 
and  rest  my  tired  feet,  and  the  moment  I  attempted  to 
lower  myself  to  a  chair,  beginning  such  a  mad  cracking 
and  snapping  in  every  seam  as  brought  me  upright  with 
a  bound  and  the  settled  conviction  that  weariness  was 
preferable  to  public  shame. 

I  am  glad  to  this  day  that  the  stage-door  was  always 
kept  locked,  for,  had  it  been  open,  heaven  only  knows 
where  those  cosmopolitan  breeches  might  have  taken  me 
—  they  were  such  experienced  travellers  that  a  trip  to 
Havana  or  to  the  City  of  Mexico  would  have  struck  them 
as  a  nice  little  jaunt. 

My  pleasantest  moments  as  utility  man  came  to  me 
when,  in  a  very  brief  white  cotton  Roman  shirt  and 
sandals,  I  led  the  shouts  for  the  supers,  who  are  pro- 
verbially dumb  creatures  before  the  audience,  though 
noisy  enough  behind  the  scenes.  So  all  the  furious  and 
destructive  mobs  of  that  season  were  led  on  by  a  little 
whipper-snapper  who  yelled  like  a  demon  with  a  copper- 
lined  throat  and  then  stood  about  afterward  peacefully 
making  tatting. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  I  had  in  the  first  place  a 
monopoly  of  the  small  parts;  far  from  it,  but  the  com- 


60  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

pany  being  rather  short  of  utility  people,  if  the  ballet- 
girls  could  play  speaking  servants,  it  not  only  saved  a 
salary  or  two  to  the  manager,  but  it  was  of  immense 
advantage  to  the  girls  themselves.  Then,  too,  Mr. 
Ellsler  was  particularly  anxious  to  avoid  any  charge  of 
favoritism ;  so  in  the  earliest  days  these  little  parts  were 
given  out  turn  and  turn  about,  without  choice  or  favor 
—  indeed,  two  or  three  times  my  short  dress  caused  me 
to  be  passed  over  in  favor  of  long  dresses  and  done-up 
hair.  But  a  few  disasters,  caused  by  failure  of  memory 
or  loss  of  nerve  on  the  part  of  these  competitors,  gave 
the  pas  to  me,  and  it  must  be  remembered  that  these 
lapses  and  mishaps,  though  amusing  to  recall,  were  ab- 
solutely disastrous  at  the  time,  ruining,  as  they  did,  the 
scene,  if  not  the  entire  act,  in  which  they  occurred. 

With  special  vividness  I  recall  the  first  one  of  these 
happenings.  "  Romeo  and  Juliet "  was  the  play,  and 
Balthazar  the  part.  I  longed  for  it  because,  aside  from 
his  fine  speech,  he  was  really  quite  important  and  had  to 
show  tenderness,  anxiety,  and  determination  during  the 
time  Romeo  addressed  him.  I  pleaded  with  my  eyes,  but 
I  could  not,  dared  not  speak  up  and  ask  for  the  part,  as 
did  Annie,  who  was  older  than  I.  The  star  and  prompter 
exchanged  a  few  low-spoken  sentences.  I  caught  the 
condemnatory  word  "  child,"  and  knew  my  fate  was 
sealed  —  long  skirts  and  turned-up  hair  had  won.  How- 
ever, my  wound  was  salved  when  the  page  to  Paris  was 
given  me  with  two  lines  to  speak. 

Now  there  is  no  one  but  Romeo  on  the  stage  when 
Balthazar  enters,  which,  of  course,  gives  him  great  promi- 
nence. His  first  speech,  of  some  fifty  or  fifty-six  words, 
is  simply  expressed,  not  at  all  involved,  yet  from  the  mo- 
ment Annie  received  the  part  she  became  a  broken,  terror- 
stricken  creature.  Many  people  when  nervous  bite  their 
nails,  but  Annie,  in  that  state  of  mind,  had  a  funny  habit 
of  putting  her  hand  to  the  nape  of  her  neck  and  rubbing 
her  hair  upward.  She  had  a  pretty  dress  of  her  own, 
but  she  had  to  borrow  a  wig,  and,  like  all  borrowed  wigs, 


MURDERING   SHAKESPEARE        61 

it  failed  to  fit ;  it  was  too  small,  and  at  last,  when  the  best 
had  been  done,  its  wobbly  insecurity  must  have  been 
terrifying. 

The  girl's  figure  was  charming,  and  as  she  stood  in 
the  entrance  in  her  boy's  costume,  I  remarked :  "  You 
look  lovely,  Annie !  " 

Silently  she  turned  her  glassy,  unseeing  eyes  toward 
me,  while  she  shifted  her  weight  swiftly  from  one  foot  to 
the  other,  opening  and  shutting  her  hands  spasmodically. 
Romeo  was  on,  and  he  joyously  declared : 

"  My  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly  in  his  throne !  " 

He  then  described  his  happy  dream  —  I  heard  the  words : 
"  When  but  love's  shadows  are  so  rich  in  joy  ! " 

And  there  Annie  staggered  forward  on  to  the  stage. 
"  News  from  Verona  !  "  cried  Romeo :  "  How  now,  Balthazar  ?  " 

Oh,  well  might  he  ask  "  How  now  ?  "  for,  shifting  from 
foot  to  foot,  this  stricken  Balthazar  was  already  feeling 
at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  and  instead  of  answering  the 
questions  of  Romeo  about  Juliet  with  the  words : 

"  Then  she  is  well,  and  nothing  can  be  ill, 
Her  body  sleeps  in  Capets'  monument, 
And  her  immortal  part  with  angels  lives ; 
I  saw  her  laid  low  in  her  kindred's  vault, 
And  presently  took  post  to  tell  it  you : 
O  pardon  me  for  bringing  these  ill  news, 
Since  you  did  leave  it  for  my  office,  sir," 

these  were  the  startling  statements  he  made  in  gulps 
and  gasps: 

"  O-Oh,  y-yes !    Sh-e's  very  well  —  and  nothing's  wrong ; 

[titter  from  audience,  and  amazement  on  Romeo's  face] 

H-her  immortal  parts  are  in  a  vault, 

I  —  I  saw  them  laid  there,  and  come  to  tell  you  !  " 


62  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

Perhaps  she  would  have  got  to  the  right  words  at  last, 
but  just  there  the  wig,  pushed  too  hard,  lurched  over  on 
one  side,  giving  such  a  piratical  look  to  the  troubled  face 
that  a  very  gale  of  laughter  filled  the  house,  and  she  re- 
tired then  and  there,  though  in  the  next  speech  she  should 
have  refused  to  leave  Romeo: 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  will  not  leave  you  thus: 
Your  looks  are  pale  and  wild," 

yet  now,  because  his  looks  were  red  and  wild,  she  left 
without  permission,  and  the  enraged  instead  of  grieving 
Romeo  had  no  one  to  receive  his  order : 


get  me  ink  and  paper, 

And  hire  post  horses." 


So  when,  in  his  confusion,  he  went  on  continuing  his 
lines  as  they  were  written,  and,  addressing  empty  space, 
fiercely  bade  Balthazar: 

" get  thee  gone  !  " 

and  in  unintentionally  suggestive  tones  promised: 
" I'll  be  with  thee  straight !  " 

the  audience  laughed  openly  and  heartily  at  the  star 
himself. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  snorted  later  on  to  Mr.  Ellsler,  "by 
heaven,  sir!  they  laughed  at  me  —  AT  ME!  I  have  been 
made  ridiculous  by  your  measly  little  Balthazar  —  who 
should  have  been  a  man,  sir!  Yes,  sir,  a  man,  whom  I 
could  have  chastised  for  making  a  fool  of  himself,  sir! 
and  a  d — d  fool  of  me,  sir !  " 

For  the  real  tragedy  of  that  night  lay  in  the  wound 
given  to  the  dignity  of  Mr.  F.  B.  Conway,  who  played 
a  measured  and  stately  Romeo  to  the  handsome  and 
mature  Juliet  of  his  wife. 


READING  THE  RIOT   ACT          63 

We  had  no  young  Juliets  just  then,  they  were  all  rather 
advanced,  rather  settled  in  character  for  the  reckless  child 
of  Verona.  But  every  lady  who  played  the  part  declared 
at  rehearsal  that  Shakespeare  had  been  foolish  to  make 
Juliet  so  young  —  that  no  woman  had  learned  enough  to 
understand  and  play  her  before  middle  age  at  least. 

Mrs.  Bradshaw,  one  day,  said  laughingly  to  me :  "  By 
your  looks  you  seemed  to  disagree  with  Mrs.  Ellsler's 
remarks  this  morning.  She,  too,  thinks  a  woman  is  not 
fit  for  Juliet  until  she  has  learned  much  of  nature  and  the 
world." 

"  But,"  I  objected,  lamely,  "  while  they  are  learning 
so  much  about  the  world  they  are  forgetting  such  a  lot 
about  girlhood !  " 

Her  laughter  confused  and  distressed  me.  "  I  can't 
say  it!  "  I  cried,  "  but  you  know  how  very  forward  Juliet 
is  in  speech?  If  she  knezv,  that  would  become  brazen 
boldness !  It  isn't  what  she  knows,  but  what  she  feels 
without  knowing  that  makes  the  tragedy !  "  And  what 
Mrs.  Bradshaw  meant  by  muttering,  "  Babes  and  suck- 
lings —  from  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings/'  I  could 
not  make  out;  perhaps,  however,  I  should  say  that  my 
mate  Annie  played  few  blank-verse  parts  after  Balthazar. 

Then,  one  Saturday  night,  we  were  all  corralled  by  the 
prompter  before  we  could  depart  for  home,  and  were 
gravely  addressed  by  the  manager  —  the  whole  thing  be- 
ing ludicrously  suggestive  of  the  reading  of  the  riot  act ; 
but  after  reminding  us  that  Mr.  James  E.  Murdoch  would 
begin  his  engagement  on  Monday  night,  that  the  re- 
hearsals would  be  long  and  important,  he  proceeded  to 
poison  the  very  source  of  our  Sunday's  rest  and  comfort 
by  fell  suggestions  of  some  dire  mishap  threatening  the 
gentleman  through  us.  We  exchanged  wondering  and 
troubled  glances.  What  could  this  mean? 

Mr.  Ellsler  went  on :  "  You  all  know  how  precise  Mr. 
Murdoch  has  always  been  about  your  readings;  how 
exacting  about  where  you  should  stand  at  this  word  or  at 
that;  how  quickly  his  impatience  of  stupidity  has  burst 


64  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

into  anger ;  but  you  probably  do  not  know  that  since  his 
serious  sickness  he  is  more  exacting  than  ever,  and  has 
acquired  the  habit,  when  much  annoyed,  of  —  of  —  er  — 
well,  of  having  a  fit." 

"  O-h !  "  it  was  unanimous,  the  groan  that  broke  from 
our  oppressed  chests.  Stars  who  gave  us  fits  we  were 
used  to,  but  the  star  who  went  into  fits  himself  —  good 
heavens !  good  heavens ! 

Rather  anxiously,  Mr.  Ellsler  continued :  "  These  fits, 
for  all  I  know,  may  spell  apoplexy  —  anyway,  he  is  too 
frail  a  man  to  safely  indulge  in  them;  so,  for  heaven's 
sake,  do  nothing  to  cross  him ;  be  on  time,  be  perfect  — 
dead  letter-perfect  in  your  parts;  write  out  all  his  direc- 
tions if  necessary;  grin  and  bear  anything,  so  long  as 
he  doesn't  have  a  fit !  Good-night." 

The  riot  act  had  been  read,  the  mob  dispersed,  but  the 
nerve  of  the  most  experienced  was  shaken  by  the  pros- 
pect  of  acting  a  whole  week  with  a  gentleman  who,  at 
any  moment,  might  get  mad  enough  to  have  a  fit. 

Think,  then,  what  must  have  been  the  state  of  mind 
of  my  other  ballet-mate,  Hattie,  who,  in  her  regular  turn, 
had  received  a  small  part,  but  of  real  importance,  and 
who  had  to  address  her  lines  to  Mr.  Murdoch  himself. 
Poor  girl,  always  nervous,  this  new  terror  made  her 
doubly  so.  She  roused  the  star's  wrath,  even  at  rehearsal. 

"Speak  louder!"  (imperatively).  "Will  you  speak 
louder?  "  (furiously).  "  Perhaps,  in  the  interest  of  those 
who  will  be  in  front  to-night,  I  may  suggest  that  you 
speak  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  —  say  —  the  first 
row!"  (satirically).  Now  a  calmly  controlled  body  is 
generally  the  property  of  a  trained  actress,  not  of  a  raw 
ballet-girl,  and  Hattie's  restless  shifting  about  and  wrig- 
gling drove  him  into  such  a  rage  that,  to  the  rest  of  us,  he 
seemed  to  be  trembling  with  inchoate  fits,  and  I  saw  the 
property  man  get  his  hat  and  take  his  stand  by  the  stage- 
door,  ready  to  fly  for  the  doctor,  or,  as  he  called  him, 
"  the  fit  sharp." 

She,  too,  was  to  appear  as  a  page.    She  was  to  enter 


STAGE-FRIGHTENED  65 

hurriedly  —  always  a  difficult  thing  for  a  beginner  to  do. 
She  was  to  address  Mr.  Murdoch  in  blank  verse  —  a 
more  difficult  thing  —  and  implore  him  to  come  swiftly 
to  prevent  bloodshed,  as  a  hostile  meeting  was  taking 
place  between  young  Count  So-and-so  and  "  your  nephew, 
sir!" 

This  news  was  to  shock  the  uncle  so  that  he  would 
stand  dazed  for  a  moment,  when  the  page,  looking  off 
the  stage,  should  cry: 

44  Ah,  you  are  too  late,  sir,  already  their  blades  are  out ! 
See  how  the  foils  writhe,"  etc. 

With  a  cry,  the  uncle  should  recover  himself,  and  furi- 
ously order  the  page  to 

" call  the  watch ! " 

Alas!  and  alas!  when  the  night,  the  play,  the  act,  the 
cue  came,  Hattie,  as  handsome  a  boy  as  you  could  wish 
to  see,  went  bravely  on,  as  quickly,  too,  as  her  terror- 
chilled  legs  could  carry  her,  but  when  she  got  there  had 
no  word  to  say  —  no,  not  one ! 

In  a  sort  of  icy  rage,  Mr.  Murdoch  gave  her  her  line, 
speaking  very  low,  of  course : 

"  My  lord  —  my  lord  !  I  do  beseech  you  haste, 
Else  here  is  murder  done !  " 

But  the  poor  girl,  past  prompting  properly,  only  caught 
wildly  at  the  sense  of  the  speech,  and  gasped  out : 

"  Come  on,  quick  !  " 

She  saw  his  foot  tapping  with  rage  —  thought  his  fits 
might  begin  that  way,  and  madly  cried,  at  the  top  of 
her  voice: 

"  Be  quick  —  see  —  see  !  publicly  they  cross  their  financiers!  " 


66  LIFE   ON    THE   STAGE 

then,  through  the  laughter,  rushed  from  the  stage,  cry- 
ing, with  streaming  tears :  "  I  don't  care  if  he  has  a  dozen 
fits !  He  has  just  scared  the  words  out  of  my  head  with 
them !  " 

And  truly,  when  Mr.  Murdoch,  trembling  with  weak- 
ness, excitement,  and  anger,  staggered  backward,  clasp- 
ing his  brow,  everyone  thought  the  dreaded  fit  had 
arrived. 

Next  day  he  reproachfully  informed  Mr.  Ellsler  that 
he  could  not  yet  see  blank  verse  and  the  King's  English 
(so  he  termed  it)  murdered  without  suffering  physically 
as  well  as  mentally  from  the  shocking  spectacle.  That 
he  was  an  old  man  now,  and  should  not  be  exposed  to 
such  tests  of  temper. 

Yes,  as  he  spoke,  he  was  an  old  man  —  pallid,  lined, 
weary-faced;  but  that  same  night  he  was  young  Mira- 
bel—  in  spirit,  voice,  eye,  and  movement.  Fluttering 
through  the  play,  "  Wine  Works  Wonders,"  in  his  satins 
and  his  laces  —  young  to  the  heart  —  young  with  the 
immortal  youth  of  the  true  artist. 

Both  these  girls  spoke  plain  prose  well  enough,  and 
always  had  their  share  of  the  parts  in  modern  plays ;  but, 
as  all  was  grist  to  my  individual  mill,  most  of  the  blank- 
verse  and  Shakespearean  small  characters  came  to  me. 
Nor  was  I  the  lucky  girl  they  believed  me ;  there  was  no 
luck  about  it.  My  small  success  can  be  explained  in  two 
words  —  extra  work.  When  they  studied  their  parts 
they  were  contented  if  they  could  repeat  their  lines  per- 
fectly in  the  quiet  of  their  rooms,  and  made  no  allowance 
for  possible  accidents  or  annoyances  with  power  to  con- 
fuse the  mind  and  so  cause  loss  of  memory  and  ensuing 
shame.  But  I  was  a  careful  young  person,  and  would 
not  trust  even  my  own  memory  without  first  taking  every 
possible  precaution.  Therefore  the  repeating  of  my  lines 
correctly  in  my  room  was  but  the  beginning  of  my  study 
of  them.  In  crossing  the  crowded  street  I  suddenly  de- 
manded of  myself  my  lines.  At  the  table,  when  all  were 
chatting,  I  again  made  sudden  demand  for  the  same. 


AWAKENING   AMBITIONS  67 

If  on  either  occasion  my  heart  gave  a  jump  and 
my  memory  failed  to  present  the  exact  word,  I  knew 
I  was  not  yet  perfect,  and  I  would  repeat  those  lines 
until,  had  the  very  roof  blown  off  the  theatre  at  night, 
I  should  not  have  missed  one.  Then  only  could  I  turn 
my  attention  to  the  acting  of  them  —  oh,  bless  you,  yes ! 
I  quite  thought  I  was  acting,  and  at  all  events  I  was 
doing  the  next  best  thing,  which  was  trying  to  act. 

But  a  change  was  coming  to  me,  an  experience  was 
approaching  which  I  cannot  explain  to  myself,  neither 
has  anyone  else  explained  it  for  me;  but  I  mention  it 
because  it  made  such  a  different  thing  of  dramatic  life 
for  me.  Aye,  such  a  difficult  thing  as  well.  Looking 
back  to  that  time  I  see  that  all  my  childhood,  all  my 
youth,  was  crowded  into  that  first  year  on  the  stage. 
There  I  first  knew  liberty  of  speech,  freedom  of  motion. 
There  I  shared  in  the  general  brightness  and  seemed  to 
live  by  right  divine,  not  by  the  grudging  permission  of 
some  task-mistress  of  my  mother.  I'  had  had  no  youth 
before,  for  in  what  should  have  been  babyhood  I  had 
been  a  troubled  little  woman,  most  wise  in  misery.  In 
freedom  my  crushed  spirits  rose  with  a  bound.  The 
mimicry,  the  adaptability  of  childhood  asserted  them- 
selves —  I  pranced  about  the  stage  happily  but  thought- 
lessly. 

It  seems  to  me  I  was  like  a  blind  puppy,  born  into 
warmth  and  comfort  and  enjoying  both,  without  any  fear 
of  the  things  it  could  not  see.  As  I  have  said  before,  I 
knew  no  fear,  I  had  no  ambition,  I  was  just  happy, 
blindly  happy ;  and  now,  all  suddenly,  I  was  to  exchange 
this  freedom  of  unconsciousness  for  the  slavery  of  con- 
sciousness. 


CHAPTER  TENTH 

With  Mr.  Dan.  Setchell  I  Win  Applause  —  A  Strange 
Experience  Comes  to  Me — I  Know  Both  Fear  and 
Ambition — The  Actress  is  Born  at  Last 

MY  manager  considered  me  to  have  a  real  gift  of 
comedy,  and  he  several  times  declared  that  my 
being  a  girl  was  a  distinct  loss  to  the  profession 
of  a  fine  low  comedian. 

It  was  in  playing  a  broad  comedy  bit  that  my  odd  ex- 
perience came  to  me.  Mr.  Dan.  Setchell  was  the  star. 
He  was  an  extravagantly  funny  comedian,  and  the  laziest 
man  I  ever  saw  —  too  lazy  even  properly  to  rehearse  his 
most  important  scenes.  He  would  sit  on  the  prompt  table 
—  a  table  placed  near  the  footlights  at  rehearsal,  hold- 
ing the  manuscript,  writing  materials,  etc.,  with  a  chair 
at  either  end,  one  for  the  star,  the  other  for  the  prompter 
or  stage  manager  —  and  with  his  short  legs  dangling  he 
would  doze  a  little  through  people's  scenes,  rousing  him- 
self reluctantly  for  his  own,  but  instead  of  rising,  taking 
his  place  upon  the  stage,  and  rehearsing  properly,  he 
would  kick  his  legs  back  and  forth,  and,  smiling  pleas- 
antly, would  lazily  repeat  his  lines  where  he  was,  adding : 
"  I'll  be  on  your  right  hand  when  I  say  that,  Herbert. 
Oh,  at  your  exit,  Ellsler,  you'll  leave  me  in  the  centre, 
but  when  you  come  back  you'll  find  me  down  left." 

After  telling  James  Lewis  several  times  at  what  places 
he  would  find  him  at  night,  Lewis  remarked,  in  despair: 
"  Well,  God  knows  where  you'll  find  me  at  night !  " 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  old  man,"  answered  the  ever-smil- 
ing, steadily  kicking  Setchell,  "  if  you're  there,  all  right ; 
if  you're  not  there,  no  matter !  "  which  was  not  exactly 
flattering. 

68 


ACTING  WITH   DAN.   SETCHELL    69 

Of  course  such  rehearsals  led  to  many  errors  at  night, 
but  Mr.  Setchell  cleverly  covered  them  up  from  the 
knowledge  of  the  laughing  audience. 

It  is  hard  to  imagine  that  lazy,  smiling  presence  in  the 
midst  of  awful  disaster,  but  he  was  one  of  the  victims  of 
a  dreadful  shipwreck  while  making  the  voyage  to  Aus- 
tralia. Bat-blind  to  the  future,  he  at  that  time  laughed 
and  comfortably  shirked  his  work  in  the  day-time,  and 
made  others  laugh  when  he  did  his  work  at  night. 

In  one  of  his  plays  I  did  a  small  part  with  him  —  I 
was  his  wife,  a  former  old  maid  of  crabbed  temper.  I 
had  asked  Mr.  Ellsler  to  make  up  my  face  for  me  as  an 
old  and  ugly  woman.  I  wore  corkscrew  side  curls  and 
an  awful  wrapper.  I  was  a  fearful  object,  and  when 
Mr.  Setchell  first  saw  me  he  stood  silent  a  moment,  then, 
after  rubbing  his  stomach  hard,  and  grimacing,  he  took 
both  my  hands,  exclaiming:  "Oh,  you  hideous  jewel! 
you  positively  gave  me  a  cramp  at  just  sight  of  you ! 
Go  in,  little  girl,  for  all  you're  worth !  and  do  just  what 
you  please  —  you  deserve  the  liberty  for  that  make-up !  " 

And  goodness  knows  I  took  him  at  his  word,  and  did 
anything  that  came  into  my  giddy  head.  Even  then  I 
possessed  that  curious  sixth  sense  of  the  born  actress, 
and  as  a  doctor  with  the  aid  of  his  stethoscope  can  hear 
sounds  of  grim  warning  or  of  kindly  promise,  while  there 
is  but  the  silence  to  the  stander-by,  so  an  actress,  with 
that  stethoscopic  sixth  sense,  detects  even  the  forming 
emotions  of  her  audience,  feeling  incipient  dissatisfaction 
before  it  becomes  open  disapproval,  or  thrilling  at  the 
intense  stillness  that  ever  precedes  a  burst  of  approbation. 

And  that  night,  meeting  with  a  tiny  mishap,  which 
seemed  to  amuse  the  audience,  I  seized  upon  it,  elaborat- 
ing it  to  its  limit,  and  making  it  my  own,  after  the  man- 
ner of  an  experienced  actor. 

There  was  no  elegant  comedy  of  manners  in  the  scene, 
understand,  it  was  just  the  broadest  farce,  and  it  con- 
sisted of  the  desperate  effort  of  a  hen-pecked  husband  to 
assert  himself  and  grasp  the  reins  of  home  government, 


70  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

which  resolved  itself  at  last  into  a  scolding-match,  in 
which  each  tried  to  talk  the  other  down  —  with  what  re- 
sult you  will  know  without  the  telling. 

The  stage  was  set  for  a  morning-room,  with  a  table 
in  the  centre,  spread  with  breakfast  for  two;  a  chair  at 
either  side  and,  as  it  happened,  a  footstool  by  mine.  His 
high  silk  hat  and  some  papers,  also,  were  upon  the  table. 
For  some  unexplainable  cause  the  silk  hat  has  always 
been  recognized,  both  by  auditor  and  actor,  as  a  legiti- 
mate object  of  fun-making,  so  when  I,  absent-mindedly, 
dropped  all  my  toast-crusts  into  that  shining  receptacle, 
the  audience  expressed  its  approval  in  laughter,  and  so 
started  me  on  my  downward  way,  for  that  was  my  own 
idea  and  not  a  rehearsed  one.  When  my  husband  mourn- 
fully asked  if  "  There  was  not  even  one  hot  biscuit  to 
be  had  ?  "  I  deliberately  tried  each  one  with  the  back  of 
my  knuckles,  and  remarking,  "  Yes,  here  is  just  one," 
which  was  the  correct  line  in  the  play,  I  took  it  myself, 
which  was  not  in  the  play,  and  so  went  on  till  the  scold- 
ing-match was  reached. 

In  my  first  noisy  speech  I  meant  to  stamp  my  foot,  but 
by  accident  I  brought  it  down  upon  the  footstool.  The 
people  laughed,  I  saw  a  point  —  I  lifted  the  other  foot 
and  stood  upon  the  stool.  By  the  twinkle  in  Mr.  Setchell's 
eye,  as  well  as  by  the  laughter  in  front,  I  knew  I  was 
on  the  right  track. 

He  roared  —  he  lifted  his  arms  above  his  head,  and 
in  my  reply,  as  I  raised  my  voice,  I  mounted  from  the 
stool  to  the  seat  of  the  chair.  He  seized  his  hat,  and 
with  the  toast-crusts  falling  about  his  face  and  ears, 
jammed  it  on  his  head,  while  in  my  last  speech,  with  my 
voice  at  its  highest  screech,  I  lifted  my  foot  and  firmly 
planted  it  upon  the  very  breakfast-table. 

It  was  enough  —  the  storm  broke  from  laughter  to 
applause.  Mr.  Setchell  had  another  speech  —  one  of  re- 
signed acceptance  of  second  place,  but  as  the  applause 
continued,  he  knew  it  would  be  an  anti-climax,  and  he 
signalled  the  prompter  to  ring  down  the  curtain. 


MAKING   A   HIT  71 

But  I  —  I  knew  he  ought  to  speak.  I  was  frightened, 
tears  filled  my  eyes.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  I  whispered,  as  I 
started  to  get  down. 

"  Stand  still,"  he  sharply  answered,  then  added :  "  It's 
you,  you  funny  little  idiot!  you've  made  a  hit  —  that's 
all !  "  and  the  curtain  fell  between  us  and  the  laughing 
crowd  in  front. 

The  prompter  started  for  me  instantly  from  his  cor- 
ner, exclaiming,  in  his  anger :  "  Well,  of  all  the  cheeky 
devilment  I  ever  heard  or  saw  — "  But  Mr.  Setchell  had 
him  by  the  arm  in  a  second,  crying :  "  Hold  on,  old  man ! 
I  gave  her  leave  —  she  had  my  permission !  Oh,  good 
Lord !  did  you  see  that  ascent  of  stool,  chair,  and  table  ? 
eh?  ha!  ha!  ha!" 

I  stood  trembling  like  a  jelly  in  a  hot  day.  Mr.  Setchell 
said :  "  Don't  be  frightened,  my  girl !  that  applause  was 
for  you !  You  won't  be  fined  or  scolded  —  you've  made 
a  hit,  that's  all !  "  and  he  patted  me  kindly  on  the  shoul- 
der and  broke  again  into  fat  laughter. 

I  went  to  my  room,  I  sat  down  with  my  head  in  my 
hands.  Great  drops  of  sweat  came  out  on  my  temples. 
My  hands  were  icy  cold,  my  mouth  was  dry,  that  ap- 
plause rang  in  my  ears.  A  cold  terror  seized  upon  me 
—  a  terror  of  what,  the  public  ? 

Ah,  a  tender  mouth  was  bitted  and  bridled  at  last !  the 
reins  were  in  the  hands  of  the  public,  and  it  would  drive 
me  —  where  ? 

The  public!  the  public!  I  had  never  feared  it  before, 
because  I  had  never  realized  its  power.  If  I  pleased, 
well  and  good.  If  I  displeased  it,  I  should  be  driven 
forth  from  the  dramatic  Eden  I  loved,  in  which  I  hoped 
to  learn  so  many  things  theatrical  and  to  become  very 
wise,  and  I  should  wander  all  my  life  in  the  stony  places 
of  poverty  and  disappointment!  I  clenched  my  hands 
and  writhed  in  misery  at  the  thought.  I  seemed  again 
to  hear  that  applause,  which  had  been  for  me  —  my  very 
self !  and  I  thrilled  at  its  wild  sweetness.  Ah,  the  public ! 
it  could  make  or  it  could  mar  my  whole  life.  Mighty 


72  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

monster,  without  mercy!  The  great  many-headed  creat- 
ure, all  jewelled  over  with  fierce,  bright  eyes,  with  count- 
less ears  a-strain  for  error  of  any  kind!  That  beat  the 
perfumed  air  with  its  myriad  hands  when  pleased  — 
when  pleased !  A  strange,  great  stillness  seemed  to  close 
about  me ;  something  murmured :  "  In  the  future,  in  the 
dim  future,  a  woman  may  cause  this  many-headed  mon- 
ster you  fear  to  think  as  one  mind,  to  feel  as  one  heart ! 
Then  the  bit  and  bridle  will  be  changed  —  that  woman 
will  hold  the  reins  and  will  drive  the  public !  "  At  which 
.1  broke  into  shrill  laughter,  in  spite  of  flowing  tears. 
Two  women  came  in,  one  said :  "  Why,  what  on  earth's 
the  matter?  Have  they  blown  you  up  for  your  didoes 
to-night?  What  need  you  care,  you  pleased  the  audi- 
ence ?  "  But  another  said,  quietly :  "  Just  get  a  glass  of 
water  for  her,  she  has  a  touch  of  hysteria  —  I  wonder 
who  caused  it  ?  " 

But  I  only  thought  of  that  woman  of  the  dim  future, 
who  was  to  conquer  the  public  —  who  was  she  ? 

Why  that  round  of  applause  should  have  so  shattered 
my  happy  confidence  I  cannot  understand,  but  the  fact 
remains  that  from  that  night  I  never  faced  a  new  audience, 
or  attempted  a  new  part,  without  suffering  a  nervous  ter- 
ror that  sometimes  but  narrowly  escaped  collapse. 


CHAPTER  ELEVENTH 

My  Promiscuous  Reading  wins  me  a  Glass  of  Soda — The 
Stage  takes  up  my  Education  and  Leads  me  through 
Many  Pleasant  Places. 

I    SUPPOSE  it  sounds  absurd   to   say  that   during 
those  first  seasons,  with  choruses,  dances,  and  small 
parts  to  learn,  with  rehearsals  every  day  and  ap- 
pearances every  night,  I  was  getting  an  education. 

But  that  depends  upon  your  definition  of  the  word.  If 
it  means  to  you  schooling,  special  instruction,  and  for- 
mal training,  then  my  claim  is  absurd;  but  if  it  means 
information,  cultivation  of  the  intellectual  powers,  en- 
lightenment, why  then  my  claim  holds  good,  my  state- 
ment stands,  I  was  getting  an  education.  And  let  me 
say  the  stage  is  a  delightful  teacher;  she  never  wearies 
you  with  sameness  or  drives  you  to  frenzy  with  iteration. 
No  deadly-dull  text-book  stupefies  you  with  lists  of  bare, 
bald  dates,  dryly  informing  you  that  someone  was  born 
in  1208,  mounted  the  throne  in  1220,  died  in  1258,  and 
was  succeeded  by  someone  or  other  who  reigned  awhile 
—  really  you  can't  remember  how  long,  and  don't  much 
care.  There's  nothing  in  figures  for  the  memory  to  cling 
to.  But  no  one  can  forget  that  Edward  V.  was  born  in 
1470,  because  he  is  such  a  tragic  little  figure,  only  thir- 
teen years  old  and  of  scant  two  months  reign,  because 
there  was  the  Tower  and  there  the  crafty,  usurping  Duke 
of  Gloster  eager  for  his  crown. 

Perhaps  people  would  remember  that  Edward  III.  was 
born  in  1312  and  was  succeeded  by  his  grandson,  Rich- 
ard, if  they  were  told  at  the  same  moment  that  he  was 
father  to  that  superb  Black  Prince,  beloved  alike  of  poet, 
painter,  and  historian. 

73 


74  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

Now,  to  be  a  good  actress  and  do  intelligent  work,  one 
should  thoroughly  understand  the  play  and  its  period  in 
history,  as  the  mainspring  of  its  action  is  often  political. 
To  be  able  to  do  that  requires  a  large  fund  of  general 
information.  That  I  had  from  my  very  babyhood  been 
a  reckless  reader,  came  about  from  necessity  —  I  had  no 
choice,  I  simply  read  every  single  thing  in  print  that  my 
greedy  hands  closed  upon;  the  results  of  this  promiscu- 
ous reading,  ranging  from  dime  novels  to  Cowper,  were 
sometimes  amusing.  One  day,  I  remember,  an  actress 
was  giving  a  very  excited  account  of  a  street  accident 
she  had  witnessed.  Her  colors  were  lurid,  and  some  of 
her  hearers  received  her  tale  coldly.  "  Oh !  "  she  cried, 
"  such  an  awful  crowd  —  a  mob,  you  know  —  a  perfect 
mob ! " 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  "  contradicted  another,  "  there  couldn't 
have  been  a  mob,  there  are  not  people  enough  in  that 
street  to  make  a  mob !  " 

Then  I  mildly  but  firmly  remarked :  "  Oh,  yes,  there 
are,  for  you  know  that  legally  three's  a  mob  and  two's 
a  crowd." 

A  shout  of  laughter  followed  this  bit  of  information. 
"How  utterly  absurd!"  cried  one.  "Well,  of  all  the 
ridiculous  ideas  I  ever  heard !  "  laughed  another.  And 
then,  suddenly,  dear  old  Uncle  Dick  (Mr.  Richard  Stev- 
ens and  player  of  old  men,  to  be  correct)  came  to  my 
support,  and,  with  the  authority  of  a  one-time  barrister, 
declared  my  statement  to  be  perfectly  correct. 

"  But  where,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  did  you  get  your 
information  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  I  vaguely  replied,  "  I  just  read  it  somewhere." 

"  That's  a  rather  broad  statement,"  remarked  Uncle 
Dick ;  "  you  don't  give  your  authority,  page  and  line,  I 
observe.  Well,  see  here,  now,  Clara  mia,  in  whatever 
field  you  found  that  one  odd  fact,  you  certainly  gleaned 
others  there,  so  if  you  can  produce,  at  once,  three  other 
legal  statements,  I  will  treat  you  to  soda-water  after 
rehearsal." 


EARNING   A   TREAT  75 

Oh,  the  delicious  word  was  scarcely  over  his  lips  when 
I  was  wildly  searching  my  memory,  and  presently,  very 
doubtfully,  offered  the  statement :  "  It  is  a  fraud  to  con- 
ceal a  fraud/' 

But  Uncle  Dick  gravely  and  readily  accepted  it.  An- 
other search,  and  then  joyfully  I  announced :  "  Contracts 
made  with  minors,  lunatics,  or  drunkards  are  void." 

A  shout  of  laughter  broke  from  the  kind  old  man's 
lips,  but  he  accepted  that,  too.  Oh,  almost  I  could  hear 
the  cool  hiss  of  the  soda  —  but  now  not  another  thing 
could  I  find.  My  face  fell,  my  heart  sank.  Hitherto  I 
had  been  thinking  of  papers,  now  I  frantically  ran  through 
stories.  Suddenly  I  cried :  "  A  lead-pencil  signature 
stands  in  law." 

But,  alas!  Uncle  Dick  hesitated  —  my  authority  was 
worthless.  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  was  I  to  lose  my  treat, 
just  for  lack  of  a  little  legal  knowledge?  Sadly  I  re- 
marked, "  I  guess  I'll  have  to  give  it  up,  unless  —  un- 
less you'll  take :  '  Principals  are  responsible  for  their 
agents,'  "  and,  with  pleasure  beaming  in  his  kind  old  eyes, 
he  accepted  it. 

Ah,  I  can  taste  that  vanilla  soda  yet  —  and,  what  is 
more,  the  old  gentleman  took  the  trouble  to  find  out  about 
the  legality  of  the  lead-pencil  signature;  and,  as  my 
statement  had  been  correct,  he  took  great  pains  to  make 
the  fact  known  to  all  who  had  heard  him  question  it,  and 
he  added  to  my  little  store  of  knowledge,  "  that  a  con- 
tract made  on  Sunday  would  not  stand,"  which,  by  the 
way,  later  on,  saved  me  from  a  probably  painful  experi- 
ence. 

I  mention  this  to  show  that  even  my  unadvised  read- 
ing had  not  been  absolutely  useless,  I  had  learned  a  little 
about  a  variety  of  things;  but  now,  plays  continually 
presented  new  subjects  to  me  to  think  and  read  about; 
thus  "  Veiiice  Preserved  "  set  me  wild  to  find  out  what 
a  Doge  was,  and  why  Venice  was  so  adored  by  her  sons, 
and  I  straightway  obtained  a  book  about  the  wonderful 
city  —  whose  commerce,  power  of  mart  and  merchant 


76  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

may  have  departed,  but  whose  mournful  beauty  is  but 
hallowed  by  her  weakness. 

So  many  plays  were  produced,  representing  so  many 
periods,  so  many  countries,  I  don't  know  how  I  should 
have  satisfied  my  craving  for  the  books  they  led  me  to 
had  not  the  Public  Library  opened  just  then.  I  was  so 
proud  and  happy  the  day  my  mother  surprised  me  with 
half  the  price  of  a  membership,  and  happier  yet  when  I 
had  the  right  to  enter  there  and  browse  right  and  left,  up 
and  down,  nibbling  here,  feeding  long  and  contentedly 
there.  Oh,  the  delight  of  reading  one  book,  with  two 
or  three  others  in  my  lap;  'twas  the  pleasure  of  plenty, 
new  to  one  who  could  have  spelled  "  economy  "  in  her 
sleep. 

Then,  again,  if  it  is  the  Stage  that  is  making  you  read, 
you  have  to  keep  your  eyes  wide  open  and  take  note  of 
many  things.  Some  girls  read  just  for  the  sake  of  the 
story,  they  heed  nothing  but  that,  they  are  even  guilty 
of  the  impertinence  of  "  skipping,"  "  to  get  to  the  story 
more  quickly,  you  know."  But  if  you  are  on  the  stage 
you  understand,  for  instance,  that  different  kinds  of  fur- 
niture are  used  for  different  periods  and  for  different 
countries;  so  even  the  beginner  knows,  when  she  sees 
the  heavy  old  Flemish  pieces  of  furniture  standing  on 
the  stage  in  the  morning,  that  no  modern  play  is  on  that 
night,  and  is  equally  sure  that  the  bringing  out  of  the 
high  tile-stove  means  a  German  interior  is  in  prepara- 
tion. Therefore,  if  you  read  for  the  stage,  you  watch 
carefully,  not  only  Sir  Thomas's  doings,  but  his  surround- 
ings. If  his  chair  or  desk  or  sideboard  is  described, 
you  make  a  note  of  the  "  heavily  carved  wood,"  or  the 
"  inlaid  wood,"  or  the  "  boule,"  or  whatever  it  may  be, 
and  then  you  note  the  date  of  the  story,  and  you  say  to 
yourself :  "  Ah,  such  and  such  furniture  belongs  to  such 
a  date  and  country." 

I  once  heard  the  company  expressing  their  shocked 
amazement  over  the  velvet  robes  of  some  Macbeth.  I 
could  not  venture  to  ask  them  why  it  was  so  dreadful, 


NECESSITY  FOR  WIDE  READING     77 

but  later  I  found  some  paper  stating  that  velvet  was  first 
known  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  was  confined  to  the 
use  of  the  priests  or  high  ecclesiastical  authorities  —  and 
my  mind  instantly  grasped  the  horror  of  the  older  actors 
at  seeing  Macbeth  swathed  in  velvet  in  the  grim,  almost 
barbaric  Scotland  of  about  1012;  for  surely  it  was  a 
dreadful  thing  for  an  actor  to  wear  velvet  four  hundred 
years  ahead  of  its  invention. 

You  never  know  just  where  the  Stage  is  going  to  lead 
you  in  your  search  for  an  education ;  only  one  thing  you 
may  be  sure  of,  it  will  not  keep  you  very  long  to  any  one 
straight  road,  but  will  branch  off  in  this  direction  or  in 
that,  taking  up  some  side  issue,  as  it  seems,  like  this  mat- 
ter of  furniture,  and  lo,  you  presently  find  it  is  becoming 
a  most  important  and  interesting  subject,  well  worth  care- 
ful study.  You  come  to  believe  you  could  recognize  the 
workmanship  of  the  great  cabinet-makers  at  sight.  You 
learn  to  shrink  from  misapplied  ornament,  you  learn 
what  gave  rise  to  the  "  veneering  reign-of-terror,"  you 
bow  at  the  name  of  Chippendale,  and  are  filled  with  won- 
der by  the  cinque-cento  extravagance  of  beauty.  You  find 
y<jurself  tracing  the  rise  and  fall  of  dynasties  through 
the  chaste  beauty  or  the  over-ornamentation  of  their 
cabinet  work.  If  all  that  Sir  Henry  Irving  knows  on 
this  subject  could  be  crowded  into  a  single  volume,  the 
book  would  have  at  least  one  fault  —  'twould  be  of  most 
unwieldy  size. 

Then  holding  you  by  the  hand  the  Stage  may  next  lead 
you  through  the  green  and  bosky  places  that  the  poets 
loved,  and,  having  had  your  eyes  opened  to  natural  beau- 
ties, lo !  you  go  down  another  lane,  and  you  are  learning 
about  costumes,  and  suddenly  you  discover  that  "  sump- 
tuary laws  "  once  existed,  confining  the  use  of  furs,  vel- 
vets, laces,  etc.,  to  the  nobility.  Fine  woollens  and  linens, 
and  gold  and  silver  ornaments  being  also  reserved  for  the 
privileged  orders.  That  the  extravagant  young  maids  and 
beaux  of  the  lower  class  who  indulged  in  yellow  starched- 
ruff,  furred  mantle,  or  silver  chain  were  made  to  pay  a 


78  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

cruel  price  for  their  folly  in  aping  their  betters.  So  it 
was  well  for  me  to  make  a  note  of  the  date  of  the  "  sump- 
tuary law,"  that  I  might  not  some  day  outrageously  over- 
dress a  character. 

It  is  a  delightful  study,  that  of  costume  —  to  learn  how 
to  drape  the  toga,  how  to  hang  the  peplum;  to  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  a  bit  of  ribbon  in  the  hair,  whether 
as  arranged  in  the  three-banded  fillet  of  the  Grecian  girl 
or  as  the  snood  of  the  Scottish  lassie;  to  know  enough 
of  the  cestus  and  the  law  governing  its  wearing,  not  to 
humiliate  yourself  in  adopting  it  on  improper  occasions ; 
to  have  at  least  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  all  foot-gear, 
from  sandals  down  to  an  Oxford  tie ;  to  be  able  to  scat- 
ter your  puffed,  slashed,  or  hanging  sleeves  over  the 
centuries,  with  their  correct  accompanying,  small-close, 
large-round,  or  square-upstanding  ruffs.  Why  the  mere 
detail  of  girdles  and  hanging  pouches,  from  distant 
queens  down  to  "  Faust's  "  Gretchen,  was  a  joy  in  itself. 

Then  a  girl  who  played  pages,  and  other  young  boys, 
was  naturally  anxious  to  know  all  about  doublets,  trunks, 
and  hose,  as  well  as  Scottish  "  philibeg  and  sporran." 
And  wigs  ?  I  used  to  wonder  if  anyone  could  ever  learn 
all  about  wigs  —  and  I'm  wondering  yet. 

But  as  one  studies  the  coming  and  going  of  past  fash- 
ions in  garments,  it  is  amusing  to  note  their  influence 
upon  the  cabinet-makers,  as  it  is  expressed  in  the  chang- 
ing shape  of  their  chairs.  For  instance:  when  panniers 
developed  into  farthingale  and  monstrous  hoop,  chairs, 
high  and  narrow,  widened,  lowered  their  arms  —  dropped 
them  entirely,  making  indeed  a  fair  start  toward  our  own 
great  easy-chair  of  to-day. 

I  remember  well  what  a  jump  my  heart  gave  when  in 
rooting  about  among  materials  —  their  weaves  and  dyes 
—  I  came  upon  the  term  "  samite."  It's  a  word  that  always 
thrills  me,  "  samite,  mystic,  wonderful."  Almost  I  was 
afraid  to  read  what  might  follow;  but  I  need  not  have 
hesitated,  since  the  statement  was  that  "  samite "  was 
supposed  to  have  been  a  delicate  web  of  silk  and  gold 


THE  STAGE  AS   EDUCATOR         79 

'or  silver  thread.  How  beautiful  such  a  combination  must 
have  been  —  white  silk  woven  with  threads  of  silver 
might  well  become  "  mystic,  wonderful,"  when  wrapped 
about  the  chill,  high  beauty  of  an  Arthur's  face. 

But  hie  and  away,  to  armor  and  arms !  for  she  would 
be  but  a  poorly  equipped  actress  who  had  no  knowledge 
of  sword  and  buckler,  of  solid  armor,  chain-mail,  rings 
of  metal  on  velvet,  or  of  plain  leather  jerkin  —  of  scimi- 
tar, sword,  broadsword,  foil,  dagger,  dirk,  stiletto,  creese. 

Oh,  no !  don't  pull  your  hand  away  if  the  Stage  wants 
to  lead  you  among  arms  and  armor  for  a  little  while ;  be 
patient,  for  by  and  by  it  will  take  you  up,  up  into  the 
high,  clear  place  where  Shakespeare  dwells,  and  there 
you  may  try  your  wings  and  marvel  at  the  pleasure  of 
each  short  upward  flight,  for  the  loving  student  of  Shakes- 
peare always  rises  —  never  sinks.  Your  power  of  insight 
grows  clearer,  stronger,  and  as  you  are  lifted  higher  and 
higher  on  the  wings  of  imagination,  more  and  more  widely 
opens  the  wonderful  land  beneath,  more  and  more  clearly 
the  voices  of  its  people  reach  you.  You  catch  their  words 
and  you  treasure  them,  and  by  ancl  by,  through  much 
loving  thought,  you  comprehend  them,  after  which  you 
can  no  longer  be  an  uneducated  woman,  since  no  man's 
wisdom  is  superior  to  Shakespeare's,  and  no  one  gives 
of  his  wisdom  more  lavishly  than  he. 

Therefore,  while  a  regular  school-education  is  a  thing 
to  be  thankful  for,  the  actress  who  has  been  denied  it  need 
not  despair.  If  she  be  willing  to  work,  the  Stage  will  edu- 
cate her  —  nor  will  it  curtly  turn  her  away  at  the  end 
of  a  few  years,  telling  her  her  "  term  "  is  ended.  I  clung 
tightly  to  its  hand  for  many  a  year,  and  was  taken  a 
little  way  through  music's  halls,  loitered  for  a  time  be- 
fore the  easel.,  and  even  made  a  little  rush  at  a  foreign 
language  to  help  me  to  the  proper  pronunciation  of  names 
upon  the  stage;  and  no  man,  no  woman  all  that  time 
rose  up  to  call  me  ignorant.  So  I  give  all  thanks  and  all 
honor  to  the  profession  that  not  only  fed  and  clothed 
me,  but  educated  me  too! 


CHAPTER   TWELFTH 

The  Peter  Richings'  Engagement  brings  me  my  First 
Taste  of  Slander — Anent  the  Splendor  of  my  Ward- 
robe, also  my  First  Newspaper  Notice. 

I  REMEMBER  particularly  that  second  season,  be- 
cause it  brought  to  me  the  first  taste  of  slander,  my 
first  newspaper  notice,  and  my  first  proposal  of 
marriage.  The  latter  being,  according  to  my  belief,  the 
natural  result  of  lengthening  my  skirts  and  putting  up 
my  hair  —  at  all  events,  it  was  a  part  of  my  education. 

Of  course  the  question  of  wardrobe  was  a  most  im- 
portant one  still.  I  had  done  very  well,  so  far  as  peasant 
dresses  of  various  nationalities  were  concerned;  I  had 
even  acquired  a  page's  dress  of  my  own,  but  I  had  no 
ball-dress,  nothing  but  a  plain,  skimpy  white  muslin 
gown,  which  I  had  outgrown ;  for  I  had  gained  surpris- 
ingly in  height  with  the  passing  year.  And,  lo!  the  re- 
port went  about  that  Mr.  Peter  Richings  and  his  daugh- 
ter Caroline  were  coming  in  a  fortnight,  and  they  would 
surely  do  their  play  "  Fashion,"  in  which  everyone  was 
on  in  a  dance;  and  I  knew  everyone  would  bring  out 
her  best  for  that  attraction,  for  you  must  know  that 
actresses  in  a  stock  company  grade  their  costumes  by  the 
stars,  and  only  bring  out  the  very  treasures  of  their  ward- 
robes on  state  occasions.  I  was  in  great  distress;  one 
of  my  mates  had  a  genuine  silk  dress,  the  other  owned 
a  bunch  of  artificial  gold  grapes,  horribly  unbecoming, 
stiff  things,  but,  mercy,  gold  grapes !  who  cared  whether 
they  were  becoming  or  not?  Were  they  not  gorgeous 
(a  lady  star  had  given  them  to  her)  ?  And  I  would  have 
to  drag  about,  heavy-footed,  in  a  skimpy  muslin ! 

But  in  the  company  there  was  a  lady  who  had  three 

80 


DRESS-MAKING   TRICKS  81 

charming  little  children.  She  was  the  singing  soubrette 
(by  name  Mrs.  James  Dickson).  One  of  her  babies  be- 
came sick,  and  I  sometimes  did  small  bits  of  shopping 
or  other  errands  for  her,  thus  permitting  her  to  go  at 
once  from  rehearsal  to  her  beloved  babies.  Entering  her 
room  from  one  of  these  errands,  I  found  her  much  vexed 
and  excited  over  the  destruction  of  one  of  a  set  of  fine 
new  lace  curtains.  The  nursemaid  had  carelessly  set  it 
on  fire.  Of  course  Mrs.  Dickson  would  have  to  buy  two 
more  curtains  to  replace  them ;  and  now,  with  the  odd 
one  in  her  hand,  she  started  toward  her  trunk,  paused 
doubtfully,  and  finally  said  to  me :  "  Could  you  use  this 
curtain  for  some  small  window  or  something,  Clara  ?  " 

At  her  very  first  word  a  dazzling  possibility  presented 
itself  to  my  mind.  With  burning  cheeks,  I  answered: 
"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  —  I  can  use  it,  but  not  at  a  window, 
I'm  afraid."  Her  bonnie  face  flashed  into  smiles. 

"  All  right ;  take  it  along,  then !  "  she  cried,  "  and  do 
what  you  like  with  it.  It's  only  been  up  two  days,  and 
has  not  a  mark  on  it." 

I  fairly  flew  from  the  house.  I  sang,  as  I  made  my 
way  uptown  to  buy  several  yards  of  rose-pink  paper 
cambric  and  a  half  garland  of  American-made  artificial 
roses.  Then  I  sped  home  and,  behind  locked  doors,  meas- 
ured and  cut  and  snipped,  and,  regardless  of  possible 
accident,  held  about  a  gill  of  pins  in  my  mouth  while  I 
hummed  over  my  work.  All  my  fears  were  gone,  they 
had  fled  before  the  waving  white  curtain,  which  fortu- 
nately for  me  was  of  fine  meshed  net,  carrying  for  de- 
sign unusually  small  garlands  of  roses  and  daisies.  And 
when  the  great  night  came,  I  appeared  as  one  of  the 
ball  guests  in  a  pink  under-slip,  with  white  lace  over- 
dress, whose  low  waist  was  garlanded  with  wild  roses. 
So,  happy  at  heart  and  light  of  foot,  I  danced  with  the 
rest,  my  pink  and  white  gown  ballooning  about  me  in 
the  courtesies  with  as  much  rustle  and  glow  of  color  as 
though  it  had  been  silk. 

But,  alas!    the  imitation  was  too  good  a  one!     The 


82  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

pretty,  cheap  little  gown  I  was  so  happy  over  attracted 
the  attention  of  a  woman  whose  whisper  meant  scandal, 
whose  lifted  brow  was  an  innuendo,  whose  drooped  lid 
was  an  accusation.  Like  a  carrion  bird  she  fed  best  upon 
corruption.  Thank  Heaven!  this  cruel  creature,  hated 
by  the  men,  feared  by  the  women,  was  not  an  actress,  but 
through  mistaken  kindness  she  had  been  made  wardrobe 
woman,  where,  as  Mr.  Ellsler  once  declared,  she  spent 
her  time  in  ripping  up  and  destroying  the  reputation  of 
his  actors  instead  of  making  and  repairing  their  ward- 
robes. 

That  nothing  was  too  small  to  catch  her  pale,  cold  eye 
is  proved  by  the  fact  that  even  a  ballet-girl's  dress  re- 
ceived her  attention.  Next  day,  after  the  play  "  Fash- 
ion "  had  been  done,  this  woman  was  saying :  "  That 
girl's  mother  had  better  be  looking  after  her  conduct, 
I  think!" 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  has  Clara  done  ? "  asked  her 
listener. 

"  Done !  "  she  cried,  "  didn't  you  see  her  flaunting  her- 
self around  the  stage  last  night  in  silks  and  laces  no  hon- 
est girl  could  own?  Where  did  the  money  come  from 
that  paid  for  such  finery  ?  " 

A  few  days  later  a  woman  who  boarded  in  the  house 
favored  by  the  mischief-maker  happened  to  meet  Mrs. 
Dickson,  happily  for  me,  and  said,  en  passant:  "  Which 
one  of  your  ballet-girls  is  it  who  has  taken  to  dressing 
with  so  much  wicked  extravagance  ?  I  wonder  Mrs.  Ells- 
ler don't  notice  it." 

Now  Mrs.  Dickson  was  Scotch,  generous,  and  "  unco  " 
quick-tempered,  and  after  she  had  put  the  inquiring  friend 
right,  she  visited  her  wrath  upon  the  originator  of  the 
slander  in  person,  and  verily  the  Scottish  burr  was  on 
her  tongue,  and  her  "  r's  "  rolled  famously  while  she  ex- 
plained the  component  parts  of  that  extravagant  costume : 
window  curtain  —  her  gift  —  and  paper  cambric  and  ar- 
tificial flowers  to  the  cost  of  one  dollar  and  seventy-five 
cents ;  "  and  you'll  admit,"  she  cried,  "  that  even  the 
purse  of  a  '  gude  lass '  can  stand  sic  a  strain  as  that ; 


MR.  PETER   B.  RICHINGS  83 

and  what's  mair,  you  wicked  woman,  had  the  girl  been 
worse  dressed  than  the  others,  you  would  ha'  been  the 
first  to  call  attention  to  her  as  slovenly  and  careless." 

This  was  the  first  drop  of  scandal  expressed  especially, 
for  me,  and  I  not  only  found  the  taste  bitter  —  very  bit- 
ter—  but  learned  that  it  had  wonderful  powers  of  ex- 
pansion, and  that  the  odor  it  gives  off  is  rather  pleasant 
in  the  nostrils  of  everyone  save  its  object. 

Mrs.  Dickson,  who,  by  the  way,  is  still  doing  good 
work  professionally,  has  doubtless  forgotten  the  entire 
incident,  curtain  and  all,  but  she  never  will  forget  the 
bonnie  baby-girl  she  lost  that  summer,  and  she  will  re- 
member me  because  I  loved  the  little  one  —  that's  a 
mother's  way. 

Mr.  Peter  B.  Richings  was  that  joy  of  the  actor's  heart 
—  a  character.  He  had  been  accounted  a  very  fine  actor 
in  his  day,  but  he  was  a  very  old  man  when  I  saw  him, 
and  his  powers  were  much  impaired.  Six  feet  tall,  high- 
featured,  Roman-nosed,  elegantly  dressed ;  a  term  from 
bygone  days  —  and  not  disrespectfully  used  —  describes 
him  perfectly :  he  was  an  "  old  Buck !  " 

His  immeasurable  pride  made  him  hide  a  stiffening 
of  the  joints  under  the  forced  jauntiness  of  his  step,  while 
a  trembling  of  the  head  became  in  him  only  a  sort  of 
debonair  senility  at  worst.  Arrogant,  short-tempered, 
and  a  veritable  martinet,  he  nevertheless  possessed  an 
unbending  dignity  and  a  certain  crabbed  courtliness  of 
manner  very  suggestive  of  the  snuff-box  and  ruffle  period 
of  a  hundred  years  before. 

His  daughter,  by  adoption,  was  the  object  of  his  un- 
qualified worship  —  no  other  word  can  possibly  express 
his  attitude  toward  her.  No  heavenly  choir  could  have 
charmed  him  as  she  did  when  she  sang,  while  her  intel- 
lectual head  and  marble-cold  face  seemed  beautiful  be- 
yond compare  in  his  eyes.  Really  it  was  worth  going  far 
to  see  him  walk  through  a  quadrille  with  her.  His  bow 
was  a  thing  for  young  actors  to  dream  of,  while  with 
trembling  head,  held  high  in  air,  he  advanced  and  re- 
treated, executing  antiquated  "  steps  "  with  a  grace  that 


84  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

deprived  them  of  comicality,  while  his  air  of  arrogant 
superiority  changed  instantly  to  profound  homage  when- 
ever in  the  movement  of  the  figures  he  met  his  daughter. 

His  pronunciation  of  her  name  was  as  a  flourish  of 
trumpets  —  Car-o-line !  Each  syllable  distinct,  the  "  C  " 
given  with  great  fulness,  and  the  emphasis  on  the  first 
syllable  when  pleased,  but  heavily  placed  upon  the  last 
when  he  was  annoyed. 

He  was  unconscionably  vain  of  his  likeness  to  Wash- 
ington, and  there  were  few  Friday  nights,  this  being  con- 
sidered the  fashionable  evening  of  the  week,  that  he  failed 
to  present  his  allegorical  picture  of  Washington  receiv- 
ing the  homage  of  the  States,  while  Miss  Richings,  as 
Columbia,  sang  the  "  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  the  States 
joining  in  the  chorus. 

In  this  tableau  the  circular  opening  in  the  flat,  backed 
by  a  sky-drop  and  with  blue  clouds  hanging  about  the 
opening,  represented  heaven.  And  here,  at  an  elevation, 
Washington  stood  at  the  right,  with  Columbia  and  her 
flag  on  his  left,  while  the  States,  represented  by  the  ladies 
of  the  company,  stood  in  lines  up  and  down  the  stage, 
quite  outside  of  heaven. 

Now  a  most  ridiculous  story  anent  Mr.  Richings  and 
this  heaven  of  his  was  circulating  through  the  entire 
profession.  Some  of  our  company  refused  to  believe  it, 
declaring  it  a  mere  spiteful  skit  against  his  well-known 
exclusiveness ;  but  that  gentleman  who  had  wished  to 
send  me  for  an  "  Ibid,"  being  an  earnest  seeker  after 
knowledge,  determined  to  test  the  truth  of  the  story. 
Therefore,,  after  we  had  been  carefully  rehearsed  in  the 
music  and  had  been  informed  by  the  star  that  only 
Car-O-line  and  himself  were  to  stand  back  of  that  sky- 
like  opening,  this  "  inquiring  "  person  gave  one  of  the 
extra  girls  fifty  cents  to  go  at  night  before  the  curtain 
rose  and  take  her  stand  on  the  forbidden  spot.  She  took 
the  money  and  followed  directions  exactly,  and  when  Mr. 
Richings,  as  Washington,  made  his  pompous  way  to  the 
stage,  he  stood  a  moment  in  speechless  wrath,  and  then, 
trembling  with  anger,  he  stamped  his  foot,  and  waving 


FIRST  NEWSPAPER  NOTICE        85 

his  arm,  cried :  "  Go  a-way !  Go  a-way  !  you  very  pre- 
suming young  person ;  this  is  heaven,  and  I  told  you 
this  morning  that  only  my  daughter  Car-O-line  and  I 
could  possibly  stand  in  heaven !  " 

It  was  enough;  the  "inquiring  one  "  was  rolling  about 
with  joy  at  his  work.  He  had  taken  a  rise  out  of  the  old 
gentleman  and  proved  the  truth  of  the  story  which  had 
gone  abroad  in  the  land  as  to  this  claim  of  all  heaven 
for  himself  and  his  Car-O-line. 

I  naturally  remember  these  stars  with  great  clearness, 
since  it  was  for  a  small  part  in  one  of  their  plays  that 
I  received  my  first  newspaper  notice.  Imagine  my  in- 
credulous joy  when  I  was  told  of  this  journalistic  feat 

—  unheard  of  before  —  of  praising  the  work  of  a  ballet- 
girl.     Suspecting  a  joke,  I  did  not  obtain  a  paper  until 
late  in  the  day,  and  after  I  had  several  times  been  told 
of  it.    Then  I  ventured  forth,  bought  a  copy  of  the  Her- 
ald, and  lo,  before  my  dazzled  eyes  appeared  my  own 
name.     Ah,    few   critics,   with   their   best   efforts,   have 
thrown  as  rosy  a  light  upon  the  world  as  did  Mr.  Jake 
Sage  with  his  trite  ten-word  statement :    "  Clara  Morris 
played  the  small  part  allotted  to  her  well." 

My  heart  throbbed  hard,  I  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse, 
through  the  rosy  light,  of  a  far-away  Temple  of  Fame, 
and  this  notice  was  like  a  petal  blown  to  me  from  the 
roses  that  wreathed  its  portals.  Could  I  ever,  ever  reach 
them! 

"  Played  the  small  part  allotted  to  her  well."  "  Oh," 
I  cried  aloud,  "  I  will  try  to  do  everything  well  —  I  will, 
indeed !  "  and  then  I  cut  the  notice  out  and  folded  it  in 
a  sheet  of  paper,  and  put  both  in  an  envelope  and  pinned 
that  fast  to  my  pocket,  that  I  might  take  it  to  my  mother, 
who  was  very  properly  impressed,  and  was  a  long  time 
reading  its  few  words,  and  was  more  than  a  trifle  misty 
about  the  eyes  when  she  gave  it  back  to  me.  Looking  at 
them  now,  the  words  seem  rather  dry  and  scant,  but  then 
they  had  all  the  sweetness,  life,  and  color  of  a  June  rose 

—  the  most  perfect  thing  of  God's  bounteous  giving. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEENTH 

Mr.  Roberts  Refers  to  Me  as  "  That  Young  Woman/' 
to  My  Great  Joy — I  Issue  the  "Clara  Code" — I 
Receive  my  First  Offer  of  Marriage. 

MY  mother,  moved  at  last  by  my  highly  colored 
accounts  of  the  humiliations  brought  upon  me 
by   the    shortness    of   my    skirts,    consented    to 
their  lengthening,  and  though  I  knew  she  had  meant 
them  to  stop  at  my  shoe-tops,  I  basely  allowed  a  mis- 
understanding to   arise   with   the  dress-maker,  through 
which  my  new  dress  came  home  the  full  length  of  the 

frown-ups,  and  though  my  conscience  worried  me  a  bit, 
still  snatched  a  fearful  joy  from  my  stolen  dignity,  and 
many  a  day  I  walked  clear  up  to  Superior  Street  that  I 
might  slowly  pass  the  big  show-windows  and  enjoy  the 
reflection  therein  of  my  long  dress-skirt.  Of  course  I 
could  not  continue  to  wear  my  hair  a  la  pigtail,  and  that 
went  up  in  the  then  fashionable  chignon. 

Few  circumstances  in  my  life  have  given  me  such  un- 
alloyed satisfaction  as  did  my  first  proposal  of  marriage. 
I  should,  however,  be  more  exact  if  I  spoke  of  an  "  at- 
tempted proposal,"  for  it  was  not  merely  interrupted,  but 
was  simply  mangled  out  of  all  likeness  to  sentiment  or 
romance.  The  party  of  the  first  part  in  this  case  was 
Mr.  Frank  Murdoch,  who  later  on  became  the  author  of 
"  Davy  Crockett,"  the  play  that  did  so  much  toward  the 
making  and  the  unmaking  of  the  reputation  of  that  brill- 
iant actor,  the  late  Frank  Mayo.  He  was  the  adoring 
elder  brother  of  that  successful  young  Harry  Murdoch 
who  was  to  meet  such  an  awful  fate  in  the  Brooklyn 
Theatre  fire.  Neither  of  them,  by  the  way,  were  born 
to  the  name  of  Murdoch ;  they  were  the  sons  of  James 

86 


MY   FIRST    PROPOSAL  87 

E.'s  sister,  and  when,  in  spite  of  his  advice  and  warning, 
they  decided  to  become  actors,  they  added  insult  to  in- 
jury, as  it  were,  by  demanding  of  him  the  use  of  his 
name  —  their  own  being  a  particularly  unattractive  one 
for  a  play-bill.  He  let  them  plead  long  and  hard  before 
he  yielded  and  allowed  them  to  take  for  life  the  name 
of  Murdoch  —  which  as  a  trade-mark,  and  quite  aside 
from  sentiment,  had  a  real  commercial  value  to  these 
young  fellows  who  had  yet  to  prove  their  individual  per- 
sonal worth. 

Frank  was  very  young  —  indeed,  our  united  ages 
would  have  barely  reached  thirty-six.  He  had  good 
height,  a  good  figure,  and  an  air  of  gentle  breeding; 
otherwise  he  was  unattractive,  and  yet  he  bore  a  strik- 
ing resemblance  to  his  uncle,  James  Murdoch,  who  had 
a  fine  head  and  most  regular  features.  But  through  some 
caprice  of  nature  in  the  nephew  those  same  features  re- 
ceived a  touch  of  exaggeration  here,  or  a  slight  twist 
there,  with  the  odd  result  of  keeping  the  resemblance  to 
the  uncle  intact,  while  losing  all  his  beauty.  Frank  had 
a  quixotic  sense  of  honor  and  a  warm  and  generous 
heart,  but  being  extremely  sensitive  as  to  his  personal 
defects  he  was  often  led  into  bursts  of  temper,  during 
which  he  frequently  indulged  in  the  most  childish  follies. 
These  outbreaks  were  always  brief,  and  ever  followed 
by  deep  contrition,  so  that  he  was  generally  regarded  as 
a  very  clever,  spoiled  child. 

Poor  boy !  his  life  was  as  sad  as  it  was  short.  There 
may  be  few  who  remember  him  now,  but  a  woman  never 
forgets  the  man  who  first  pays  a  compliment  to  her  eyes, 
nor  can  I  forget  the  first  man  who  handed  me  a  chair 
and  opened  and  closed  doors  for  me,  just  as  for  any 
grown-up. 

He  joined  the  company  in  about  the  middle  of  that 
season  in  which  I  acted  principally  as  utility  man.  He 
was  to  pLy  singing  parts  and  young  lovers,  and,  to  his 
amusement,  I  criticized  his  reading  of  one  of  Cassio's 
speeches.  Our  wrangle  over  Shakespeare  made  friends 


88  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

of  us  at  once.  He  had  a  veritable  passion  for  poetry, 
and  with  me  he  felt  free  to  bring  out  his  beautiful  hobby 
to  mount  and  ride  and  ride,  with  some  of  the  great  poets 
up  behind  and  me  for  applauding  audience.  When  he 
wanted  me  to  know  some  special  poem  he  bought  it  for 
me  if  he  could ;  but  if  he  was  short  of  money,  he  care- 
fully copied  out  its  every  line,  tied  the  manuscript  neatly 
up  with  ribbon,  and  presented  the  poem  in  that  form.  I 
came  across  a  copy  of  "  Maud  Muller  "  the  other  day 
in  Frank's  clear,  even  handwriting.  The  paper  was  yel- 
low, the  ribbon  faded.  Frank  is  gone,  Whittier  is  gone, 
but  "  Maud  Muller  "  lives  on  in  her  immortal  youth  and 
pain. 

But  the  morning  when  he  first  brought  and  offered 
me  a  chair  was  nothing  less  than  an  epoch  in  my  life. 
At  first  I  regarded  the  act  as  an  aspersion  on  my 
strength  —  a  doubt  cast  upon  my  ability  to  obtain  a  seat 
for  myself.  Then,  as  I  glanced  frowningly  into  his  face, 
I  suddenly  realized  that  it  was  meant  as  a  mark  of  con- 
sideration —  the  courtesy  a  man  shows  a  woman.  A 
glow  of  satisfaction  spread  through  my  being.  I  hated 
to  rise,  I  was  so  afraid  the  thing  might  never  happen  to 
me  again.  I  need  not  have  worried,  however,  as  I  was 
soon  to  receive  a  more  impressive  proof  of  his  considera- 
tion for  my  welfare. 

One  of  the  most  unpleasant  experiences  in  the  life  of 
a  young  actress  is  her  frightened  lonely  rush  through  the 
city  streets  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night  to  reach  her  board- 
ing-house and  claim  sanctuary.  I  doubt  if  even  a  Una 
and  her  lion  could  pass  unmolested  through  those  streets 
dotted  with  all-night  "  free  and  easys,"  where,  by  the  way, 
nothing  is  free  but  the  poisonous  air,  and  nothing  easy 
but  the  language.  At  all  events  from  my  own  varied  and 
unpleasant  experiences,  and  from  the  stories  of  others, 
I  had  first  drawn  certain  deductions,  then  I  had  pro- 
ceeded to  establish  certain  rules  for  the  guidance  and 
direction  of  any  girl  who  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  be 
forced  to  walk  abroad  unattended  at  night.  These  rules 


MY    CODE  89 

became  known  as  "  Clara's  Code,"  and  were  highly  ap- 
proved, especially  by  those  girls  who  "  couldn't  think," 
as  they  declared,  but  stood  stock-still,  "  too  frightened 
to  move,"  when  some  wanderer  of  the  night  uncere- 
moniously addressed  them. 

I  cannot  remember  all  those  rules  now,  since  for  these 
many  years  God  has  granted  me  a  protector,  but  from  the 
few  I  can  recall  I  am  convinced  that  their  principal  ob- 
ject was  to  gain  plenty  of  leeway  for  the  persecuted 
girl's  escape.  No.  3  sternly  forbade  her  ever,  ever  to 
pass  between  two  advancing  men  —  at  night,  of  course, 
be  it  understood  —  lest  they  might  seize  hold  of  and  so 
frighten  her  to  death.  She  was  advised  never  to  permit 
herself  to  take  the  inside  of  the  walk  when  meeting  a 
stranger,  who  might  thus  crowd  her  against  the  house 
and  cut  off  her  chance  to  run.  Never  to  pass  the  open- 
ing to  an  alley-way  without  placing  the  entire  width  of 
the  walk  between  her  and  it,  and  always  to  keep  her  eyes 
on  it  as  she  crossed.  Never  to  let  any  man  pass  her 
from  behind  on  the  outside  was  insisted  on,  indeed  she 
should  take  to  the  street  itself  first.  She  was  not  to 
answer  a  drunken  man,  no  matter  what  might  be  the 
nature  of  his  speech.  She  was  not  to  scream  — if  she 
could  help  it  —  for  fear  of  public  humiliation,  but  if  the 
worst  came  and  some  hideous  prowler  of  the  night  passed 
from  speech  to  actual  attack,  then  she  was  to  forget  her 
ladyhood  and  remembering  only  the  tenderness  of  the 
male  shin  and  her  right  of  self-defence,  to  kick  like  a 
colt  till  help  came  or  she  was  released. 

Other  portions  of  the  code  I  have  forgotten,  but  I  do 
distinctly  remember  that  it  wound  up  with  the  really 
Hoyle-like  observation,  "  When  in  doubt,  take  to  the  cen- 
tre of  the  street." 

We  all  know  the  magic  power  of  the  moonlight  — 
have  seen  it  transmute  the  commonest  ugliness  into  per- 
fect beauty  and  change  a  world-worn  woman  into  the 
veriest  lily-maid,  but  how  few  know  the  dread  power 
exerted  over  man  by  the  street  gaslight  after  midnight. 


90  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

The  kindest  old  drake  of  the  farm-pond,  the  most  pom- 
pously harmless  gobbler  of  the  buckwheat-field  becomes 
a  vulture  beneath  the  midnight  street-light.  A  man  who 
would  shoot  for  being  called  a  blackguard  between  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  and  twelve  at  night,  often  be- 
comes one  after  midnight.  It  is  frequently  said  that 
"  words  break  no  bones,"  but  let  a  young  girl  pass  alone 
through  the  city  streets  a  few  nights  and  she  will  prob- 
ably hear  words  that,  drowning  her  in  shamed  blushes, 
will  go  far  toward  breaking  her  pride,  if  not  her  bones. 
Men  seem  to  be  creatures  of  very  narrow  margin  —  they 
so  narrowly  escape  being  gods,  and  they  so  much  more 
narrowly  escape  being  animals.  Under  the  sunlight, 
man,,  made  in  the  image  of  God,  lifts  his  face  heaven- 
ward and  walks  erect;  under  the  street-lamps  of  mid- 
night he  is  stealthy,  he  prowls,  he  is  a  visible  destruction ! 
You  think  I  exaggerate  the  matter?  Do  not;  I  speak 
from  experience.  And,  what  is  more,  at  that  time  I  had 
not  yet  learned  what  the  streets  of  New  York  could  pro- 
duce after  midnight. 

But  on  the  night  after  the  chair  episode,  Frank  Mur- 
doch heard  one  of  the  girls  say  she  had  used  the  Clara 
Code  very  successfully  the  night  before,  when  two 
drunken  men  had  reeled  out  of  an  alley,  who  would  have 
collided  with  her  had  she  not  followed  the  rule  and  kept 
the  whole  sidewalk  between  them.  He  stood  at  the  door 
as  I  came  down-stairs,  and  as  soon  as  I  reached  him  he 
asked,  sharply :  "  Do  you  go  home  alone  of  nights  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  Good  God !  "  he  muttered. 

After  a  pause  I  looked  up  at  him,,  and  met  his  eyes 
shining  wet  and  blue  through  two  tears.  "  Oh,"  I  hastily 
added,  "  there's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of." 

"  I  wish  I  could  agree  with  you,"  he  answered.  '  Tell 
me,"  he  went  on,  "  have  you  ever  been  annoyed  by  any- 
one?" 

My  eyes  fell,  I  knew  I  was  growing  red. 

"  Good  God ! "  he  said  again,  then,  suddenly,  he  or- 


"COCKY"    ROBERTS  91 

dered :  "  Give  me  that  bag  —  you'll  not  go  through  these 
streets  alone  again  while  I  am  here!  Never  mind  the 
distance.  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  take  my  arm." 

And  thus  I  found  myself  for  the  first  time  escorted  by 
a  gentleman,  and  after  my  hot  embarrassment  wore  off 
a  bit,  I  held  my  head  very  high  and  languidly  allowed 
my  skirt  to  trail  in  the  dust,  and  said  to  myself :  "  This 
is  like  a  real  grown-up  —  surely  they  can't  call  me  '  child  ' 
much  longer  now." 

The  star  playing  with  us  just  then  was  a  tragedian, 
but  he  was  a  very  little  man,  whose  air  of  alertness,  even 
of  aggressiveness,  had  won  for  him  the  title  of  "  Cocky  " 
Roberts.  He  wore  enormously  high  heels,  he  had  thick 
cork  soles  on  the  outside  and  thick  extra  soles  on  the 
inside  of  all  his  boots  and  shoes.  His  wigs  were  slightly 
padded  at  their  tops  —  everything  possible  was  done  for 
a  gain  in  height,  while  all  the  time  he  was  sputtering  and 
swearing  at  what  he  called  "  this  cursed  cult  of  legs !  " 

"  Look  at  'em !  "  he  snorted  —  for  he  did  snort  like  a 
horse  when  he  was  angry,  as  he  often  was,  at  the  theatre 
at  least.  "  Look  at  'em,  Ellsler ;  there's  Murdoch,  Proc- 
tor, Davenport,  all  gone  to  legs,  damn  'em,  and  calling 
themselves  actors !  '  You  don't  look  for  brains  in  a  man's 
legs,  do  you  ?  No !  no !  it's  the  cranium  that  tells !  Yes, 
blast  'em !  Let  'em  come  here  and  match  craniums  with 
me,  that  they  think  it  smart  to  call  '  Cocky ' !  They're  a 
lot  of  theatrical  tongs  —  all  legs  and  no  heads !  " 

And  yet  the  poor,  fuming  little  man,  with  his  exag- 
gerated strut,  would  have  given  anything  short  of  his 
life,  to  have  added  even  a  few  inches  to  his  anatomy,  the 
brevity  of  which  was  quite  forgotten  by  the  public  when 
he  gave  his  really  brilliant  and  pathetic  performance  of 
"  Belphegor,"  one  of  the  earliest  of  the  so-called  "  emo- 
tional" plays. 

I  have  a  very  kindly  remembrance  of  that  fretful  little 
star,  because  when  they  were  discussing  the  cast  of  a 
play,  one  of  those  tormenting  parts  turned  up  that  are 
of  great  importance  to  the  piece,  but  of  no  importance 


92  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

themselves.  Capable  actresses  refuse  to  play  them,  and 
incapable  ones  create  havoc  in  them.  This  one  had  al- 
ready been  refused,  when  Mr.  Roberts  suddenly  ex- 
claimed :  "  Who  was  it  made  those  announcements  last 
night?  She  spoke  with  beautiful  distinctness;  let  that 
young  woman  have  the  part,  she'll  do  it  all  right." 

Oh,  dear  Mr.  Roberts !  never  "  Cocky  "  to  me !  Oh, 
wise  little  judge !  how  I  did  honor  him  for  those  precious 
words :  "  Let  that  young  woman  have  the  part."  That 
"  young  woman!  I  could  have  embraced  him  for  very 
gratitude  —  a  part  and  the  term  "  young  woman,"  and 
since,  as  my  old  washerwoman  used  to  say,  "  it  never 
rains  but  it  pours,"  while  these  two  words  were  still  mak- 
ing music  in  my  ears,  by  some  flash  of  intuition  I  realized 
that  I  was  being  courted  by  Frank.  The  discovery  filled 
me  with  the  utmost  satisfaction.  I  gave  no  thought  to 
him,  in  a  sentimental  way,  either  then  or  ever;  quite 
selfishly  I  thought  only  of  my  own  gain  in  dignity  and 
importance,  for  I  started  out  in  life  with  the  old-fashioned 
idea  that  a  man  honored  a  woman  by  his  courtship,  and 
I  knew  naught  of  the  lover  who  "  loves  and  rides  away." 
Yet  in  a  few  days  the  curious  cat-like  instinct  of  the  un- 
conscious coquette  awakened  in  me,  and  I  began  very 
gently  to  try  my  claws. 

I  wished  very  much  to  know  if  he  were  jealous,  as  I  had 
been  told  that  real  lovers  were  always  so ;  and,  naturally, 
I  did  not  wish  mine  to  fall  short  of  any  of  the  time-hon- 
ored attributes  of  loverdom.  Therefore  I,  one  morning, 
selected  for  experimental  use  a  man  whose  volume  of 
speech  was  a  terror  to  all.  Had  he  been  put  to  the  sword, 
he  would  have  talked  to  the  swordsman  till  the  final  blow 
cut  his  speech.  He  was  most  unattractive,  too,  in  ap- 
pearance, being  one  of  those  actors  who  get  shaved  after 
rehearsal  instead  of  before  it,  thus  gaining  a  reputation 
for  untidiness  that  facts  may  not  always  justify  —  but  he 
served  my  purpose  all  the  better  for  that. 

I  deliberately  placed  myself  at  his  side ;  I  was  only  a 
ballet-girl,  but  I  had  two  good  ears  —  I  was  welcome. 


USEFUL   KNOWLEDGE  93 

Conversation,  or  rather  the  monologue,  burst  forth. 
Standing  at  the  side  of  the  stage,  with  rehearsal  going 
on,  he  of  course  spoke  low.  I  watched  for  Frank's  ar- 
rival. '  He  came,  I  heard  his  cheery  "  Good-morning, 
ladies !  good-morning,  gentlemen !  "  and  then  he  started 
toward  me,  but  I  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing  of  him. 
My  upraised  eyes,  as  wide  as  I  possibly  could  make  them, 
were  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the  talker.  Yet,  with  a  jump 
of  the  heart,  I  knew  the  brightness  had  gone  from  Frank's 
face,  the  spring  from  his  step.  I  smiled  as  sweetly  as  I 
knew  how;  I  seemed  to  hang  upon  the  words  of  the 
untidy  one,  and  oh!  if  Frank  could  only  have  known 
what  those  words  were;  how  I  was  being  assured  that 
he,  the  speaker,  had  that  very  morning  succeeded  in 
stopping  a  leaky  hole  in  his  shoe  by  melting  a  piece  of 
india-rubber  over  and  on  it,  and  that  not  a  drop  of 
water  had  penetrated  when  he  had  walked  through  the 
rain-puddles ;  and  right  there,  like  music,  there  came  to 
my  listening  ear  a  word  of  four  letters  —  a  forbidden 
word,  but  one  full  of  consolation  to  the  distressed  male ; 
a  word  beginning  with  "  d,"  and  for  fear  that  you  may 
think  it  was  "  dear,"  why,  I  will  be  explicit  and  say  that 
it  was  "  damn !  "  and  that  it  was  from  the  anger-whitened 
lips  of  Frank,  who  during  the  morning  gave  not  only  to 
me,  but  to  all  lookers-on,  most  convincing  proof  of  his 
jealousy,  and  that  was  the  beginning  of  my  experiments. 

I  did  this,  to  see  if  it  would  make  him  angry.  I  did 
that,  to  see  if  it  would  please  him.  Sometimes  I  scratched 
him  with  my  investigating  claws,  then  I  was  sorry  — 
truly  sorry,  because  I  was  grateful  always  for  his  gentle 
goodness  to  me,  and  never  meant  to  hurt  him.  But  he 
represented  the  entire  sex  to  me,  and  I  was  learning  all 
I  could,  thinking,  as  I  once  told  him,  that  the  knowledge 
might  be  useful  on  the  stage  some  time,  and  I  wondered 
at  the  very  fury  my  words  provoked  in  him. 

We  quarrelled  sometimes  like  spiteful  children,  as 
when  I,  startled  into  laughter  by  hearing  his  voice  break 
in  a  speech,  unfortunately  excused  myself  by  saying: 


94  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

"  It  was  just  like  a  young  rooster,  you  know!  "  and  he, 
white  with  anger,  cried :  "  You're  a  solid  mass  of  rude- 
ness, to  laugh  at  a  misfortune ;  you  have  no  breeding !  " 

This  brought  from  me  the  rejoinder:  "I  know  it, 
but  you  would  have  shown  better  breeding  yourself  had 
you  not  told  me  of  it !  " 

And  then  he  was  on  his  knee  in  the  entrance,  begging 
forgiveness,  and  saying  his  "  cursed,  cracking  voice  made 
a  madman  of  him !  " 

As  it  really  did,  for  he  often  accused  people  of  guying 
him  if  they  did  but  clear  their  own  throats.  And  so  we 
went  on  till  something  in  his  manner  —  his  increased  ef- 
forts to  find  me  alone  at  rehearsal,  for  as  I  was  without 
a  room-mate  in  Columbus,  I  could  not  receive  him  at 
home,  and  I  truly  think  he  would  have  kept  silence  for- 
ever rather  than  have  urged  me  to  break  any  conven- 
tional rule  of  propriety  —  this  something  gave  me  the  idea 
that  Frank  was  going  to  be  —  well  —  explicit,  that  — 
that  —  I  was  going  to  be  proposed  to  according  to  es- 
tablished form. 

Now,  though  a  proposal  of  marriage  is  a  thing  to  look 
forward  to  with  desire,  to  look  back  upon  with  pride,  it 
is  also  a  thing  to  avoid  when  it  is  in  the  immediate  future, 
and  I  so  successfully  evaded  his  efforts  to  find  me  alone, 
at  the  theatre  or  at  some  friend's  house,  that  he  was 
forced  at  last  to  speak  at  night,  while  escorting  me  home. 

I  lodged  in  a  quiet  little  street,  opening  out  of  the 
busier,  more  noisy  Kinsman  Street.  In  our  front  yard 
there  lived  a  large,  greedy  old  tree,  which  had  planted 
its  foot  firmly  in  the  very  middle  of  the  path,  thus  forc- 
ing everyone  to  chasse  around  it  who  wished  to  enter  the 
house.  Its  newly  donned  summer  greenery  extended  far 
over  the  gate,  and  as  the  moon  shone  full  and  fair  the 
"  set  "  was  certainly  appropriate. 

We  reached  the  gate,  and  I  held  out  my  hand  for  my 
bag  —  that  small  catch-all  of  a  bag  that,  in  the  hand  of 
the  actress,  is  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  her  pro- 
fession; but  he  let  the  bag  slip  to  the  walk  and  caught 


AN   INTERRUPTED  PROPOSAL      95 

my  hand  in  his.  The  street  was  deserted.  Leaning 
against  the  gate  beneath  the  sheltering  boughs  of  the 
old  tree,  the  midnight  silence  all  about  us,  he  began  to 
speak  earnestly. 

I  made  a  frantic  search  through  my  mind  for  some- 
thing to  say  presently,  when  my  turn  would  come  to 
speak.  I  rejected  instantly  the  ancient  wail  of  "  sudden- 
ness." Frank's  temper  did  not  encourage  an  offer  of 
"  sisterhood."  I  was  just  catching  joyously  at  the  idea 
of  hiding  behind  the  purely  imaginary  opposition  of  my 
mother,  when  Frank's  words :  "  Then,  too,  dear  heart ! 
I  could  protect  you,  and — "  were  interrupted  by  a  yowl, 
so  long,  so  piercing,  it  seemed  to  rise  like  a  rocket  of 
anguish  into  the  summer  sky. 

"  Oh ! "  I  thought,  "  that's  one-eared  Jim  from  next 
door,  and  if  our  Simmons  hears  him  —  and  he'd  have  to 
be  dead  not  to  hear  —  he  will  come  out  to  fight  him !  " 
I  clenched  my  teeth,  I  dropped  my  eyes  that  Frank  might 
not  see  the  threatening  laughter  there.  I  noted  how  much 
whiter  his  hand  was  than  mine,  as  they  were  clasped  in 
the  moonlight.  The  pause  had  been  long;  then,  very 
gently,  he  started  again :  "  Mignonne !  " 

Distinctly  I  heard  the  thump  of  Simmons's  body  drop- 
ping from  the  porch-roof.  "  Mignonne,  look  up !  you 
big-eyed  child,  and  tell  me  that  I  may  go  to  your  mother 
with  your  promise !  " 

"Mi-au!  Mi-au!  Wow!  Spit!  Spit!  Wow!" 
Four  balls  of  fire  glowed  for  a  moment  beneath  the  tree, 
then  two  dark  forms  became  one  dark  form,  that  whirled 
and  bounded  through  space,  emitting  awful  sounds.  The 
cats  were  too  much  for  me,  I  threw  back  my  head  and 
laughed. 

My  laugh  was  too  much  for  Frank.  His  temper  broke, 
he  flung  my  hand  away,  crying  out :  "  Laugh,  you  little 
idiot!  You're  worse  than  the  animals,  for  they  at  least 
know  no  better !  Laugh  till  morning,  if  you  like !  "  and 
then  I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  but  he  kicked  my  bag,  the 
precious  insignia  of  my  profession,  and  rushed  down  the 


96  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

street,  leaving  me  standing  there  amid  the  debris  of  the 
wrecked  proposal. 

Next  night  he  frigidly  presented  himself  to  escort  me 
home,  and  when  I  coldly  declined  his  company,  he  turned 
silently  and  left  me.  Truth  to  tell,  I  did  not  enjoy  my 
walk  alone,  through  the  market-place  in  particular,  and 
I  planned  to  unbend  a  little  the  next  evening;  but  I  was 
much  piqued  to  find  myself  without  an  excuse  for  un- 
bending, since  on  the  next  evening  he  did  not  offer  his 
company.  The  third  night  there  was  a  big  lump  in  my 
throat,  and  the  tears  would  have  fallen  had  they  not 
been  suddenly  dried  in  my  eyes  by  the  sight  of  a  familiar 
light-gray  suit  slipping  along  close  to  the  houses  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way.  Petulant,  irritable,  loyal-hearted 
boy!  he  had  safe-guarded  me  both  those  nights  when  I 
thought  I  was  alone !  My  heart  was  warm  with  grati- 
tude toward  him,  and  when  I  reached  my  gate,  and  passed 
inside,  I  called  across  the  street :  "  Thank  you,  Frank ! 
Good-night ! " 

And  he  laughed  and  answered :  "  Good-night,  Mign- 
onne ! " 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Frank's  wooing,  being  of 
the  strict  and  stately  order,  I  gradually  came  to  be  Miss 
Morris  to  others  beside  himself.  I  saw  my  advance  in 
dignity,  and  if  I  did  not  love  him  I  gave  him  profound 
gratitude,  and  we  were  true  friends  his  short  and  hon- 
orable life  through. 


CHAPTER   FOURTEENTH 

Mr.  Wilkes  Booth  comes  to  us,  the  whole  Sex  Loves 
him —  Mr.  Ellsler  Compares  him  to  his  Great  Father  — 
Our  Grief  and  Horror  over  the  Awful  Tragedy  at  Wash- 
ington. 

IN  glancing  back  over  those  two  crowded  and  busy 
seasons  one  figure  stands  out  with  such  clearness  and 
beauty  that  I  cannot  resist  the  impulse  to  speak  of 
him,  rather  than  of  my  own  inconsequential  self.  In  his 
case  only  (so  far  as  my  personal  knowledge  goes)  there 
was  nothing  derogatory  to  dignity  or  to  manhood  in 
being  called  beautiful,  for  he  was  that  bud  of  splendid 
promise,  blasted  to  the  core  before  its  full  triumphant 
blooming  —  known  to  the  world  as  a  madman  and  an 
assassin — but  to  the  profession  as  "  that  unhappy  boy," 
John  Wilkes  Booth. 

He  was  so  young,  so  bright,  so  gay,  so  kind.  I  could 
not  have  known  him  well.  Of  course,  too,  there  are  two 
or  three  different  people  in  every  man's  skin,  yet  when 
we  remember  that  stars  are  not  generally  in  the  habit  of 
showing  their  brightest,  their  best  side  to  the  company 
at  rehearsal,  we  cannot  help  feeling  both  respect  and  lik- 
ing for  the  one  who  does. 

There  are  not  many  men  who  can  receive  a  gash  over 
the  eye  in  a  scene  at  night  without  at  least  a  momentary 
outburst  of  temper,  but  when  the  combat  between  Rich- 
ard and  Richmond  was  being  rehearsed,  Mr.  Booth  had 
again  and  again  urged  Mr.  McCollom  (that  six-foot  tall 
and  handsome  leading  man,  who  entrusted  me  with  the 
care  of  his  watch  during  such  encounters)  to  "  Come  on 
hard!  Come  on  hot!  Hot,  old  fellow!  Harder  — 
faster ! "  He'd  take  the  chance  of  a  blow,  if  only  they 
could  make  a  hot  fight  of  it. 

97 


98  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

And  Mr.  McCollom,  who  was  a  cold  man,  at  night 
became  nervous  in  his  effort  to  act  like  a  fiery  one.  He 
forgot  he  had  struck  the  full  number  of  head  blows,  and 
when  Booth  was  pantingly  expecting  a  thrust,  McCollom, 
wielding  his  sword  with  both  hands,  brought  it  down 
with  awful  force  fair  across  Booth's  forehead.  A  cry 
of  horror  rose,  for  in  one  moment  his  face  was  masked 
in  blood,  one  eybrow  being  cut  cleanly  through.  There 
came,  simultaneously,  one  deep  groan  from  Richard,  and 
the  exclamation :  "  Oh,  good  God !  good  God !  "  from 
Richmond,  who  stood  shaking  like  a  leaf  and  staring  at 
his  work.  Then  Booth,  flinging  the  blood  from  his  eyes 
with  his  left  hand,  said,  as  genially  as  man  could  speak : 
"  That's  all  right,  old  man !  never  mind  me  —  only  come 
on  hard,  for  God's  sake,  and  save  the  fight !  " 

Which  he  resumed  at  once,  and  though  he  was  per- 
ceptibly weakened,  it  required  the  sharp  order  of  Mr. 
Ellsler  to  "  ring  the  first  curtain  bell,"  to  force  him  to 
bring  the  fight  to  a  close,  a  single  blow  shorter  than 
usual.  Then  there  was  a  running  to  and  fro,  with  ice 
and  vinegar  paper  and  raw  steak  and  raw  oysters.  When 
the  doctor  had  placed  a  few  stitches  where  they  were 
most  required,  he  laughingly  declared  there  was  pro- 
vision enough  in  the  room  to  start  a  restaurant.  Mr. 
McCollom  came  to  try  to  apologize,  to  explain,  but  Booth 
would  have  none  of  it;  he  held  out  his  hand,  crying: 
"  Why,  old  fellow,  you  look  as  if  you  had  lost  the  blood. 
Don't  worry.  Now  if  my  eye  had  gone,  that  would  have 
been  bad !  "  And  so,  with  light  words,  he  tried  to  set 
the  unfortunate  man  at  ease,  and  though  he  must  have 
suffered  much  mortification  as  well  as  pain  from  the  eye, 
that  in  spite  of  all  endeavors  would  blacken,  he  never 
made  a  sign. 

He  was,  like  his  great  elder  brother,  rather  lacking 
in  height,  but  his  head  and  throat,  and  the  manner  of 
its  rising  from  his  shoulders,  were  truly  beautiful.  His 
coloring  was  unusual,  the  ivory  pallor  of  his  skin,  the 
inky  blackness  of  his  densely  thick  hair,  the  heavy  lids 


JOHN   WILKES   BOOTH  99 

of  his  glowing  eyes,  were  all  Oriental,  and  they  gave  a 
touch  of  mystery  to  his  face  when  it  fell  into  gravity; 
but  there  was  generally  a  flash  of  white  teeth  behind  his 
silky  mustache,  and  a  laugh  in  his  eyes. 

One  thing  I  shall  never  cease  to  admire  him  for. 
When  a  man  has  placed  a  clean  and  honest  name  in  his 
wife's  care  for  life,  about  the  most  stupidly  wicked  use 
she  can  make  of  it  is  as  a  signature  to  a  burst  of  amatory 
flattery,  addressed  to  an  unknown  actor,  who  will  despise 
her  for  her  trouble.  Some  women  may  shrivel  as  though 
attacked  with  "  peach-leaf  curl  "  when  they  hear  how 
these  silly  letters  are  sometimes  passed  about  and  laughed 
at.  "  No  gentleman  would  so  betray  a  confidence !  "  Of 
course  not;  but  once  when  I  made  that  remark  to  an 
actor,  who  was  then  flaunting  the  food  his  vanity  fed 
upon,  he  roughly  answered :  "  And  no  lady  would  so 
address  an  unknown  man.  She  cast  away  her  right  to 
respectful  consideration  when  she  thrust  that  letter  in 
the  box."  That  was  brutal;  but  there  are  those  who 
think  like  him  this  very  day,  and  oh,  foolish  tamperers 
with  fire,  who  act  like  him! 

Now  it  is  scarcely  an  exaggeration  to  say  the  sex  was 
in  love  with  John  Booth,  the  name  Wilkes  being  appar- 
ently unknown  to  his  family  and  close  friends.  At  depot 
restaurants  those  fiercely  unwilling  maiden-slammers  of 
plates  and  shooters  of  coffee-cups  made  to  him  swift  and 
gentle  offerings  of  hot  steaks,  hot  biscuits,  hot  coffee, 
crowding  round  him  like  doves  about  a  grain  basket, 
leaving  other  travellers  to  wait  upon  themselves  or  go 
without  refreshment.  At  the  hotels,  maids  had  been 
known  to  enter  his  room  and  tear  asunder  the  already 
made-up  bed,  that  the  "  turn-over "  might  be  broader 
by  a  thread  or  two,  and  both  pillows  slant  at  the  perfectly 
correct  angle.  At  the  theatre,  good  heaven !  as  the  sun- 
flowers turn  upon  their  stalks  to  follow  the  beloved  sun, 
so  old  or  young,  our  faces  smiling,  turned  to  him.  Yes, 
old  or  young,  for  the  little  daughter  of  the  manager,  who 
played  but  the  Duke  of  York  in  "  Richard  III.,"  came  to 


ioo  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

the  theatre  each  day,  each  night  of  the  engagement,  ar- 
rayed in  her  best  gowns,  and  turned  on  him  fervid  eyes 
that  might  well  have  served  for  Juliet.  The  manager's 
wife,  whose  sternly  aggressive  virtue  no  one  could  doubt 
or  question,  with  the  aid  of  art  waved  and  fluffed  her 
hair,  and  softened  thus  her  too  hard  line  of  brow,  and 
let  her  keen  black  eyes  fill  with  friendly  sparkles  for  us 
all- — yet,  'twas  because  of  him.  And  when  the  old 
woman  made  to  threaten  him  with  her  finger,  and  he 
caught  her  lifted  hand,  and  uncovering  his  bonnie  head, 
stooped  and  kissed  it,  then  came  the  wanton  blood  up 
in  her  cheek  as  she  had  been  a  girl  again. 

His  letters  then  from  flirtatious  women,  and,  alas! 
girls,  you  may  well  believe  were  legion.  A  cloud  used 
to  gather  upon  his  face  at  sight  of  them.  I  have  of 
course  no  faintest  idea  that  he  lived  the  godly,  righteous, 
and  sober  life  that  is  enjoined  upon  us  all,  but  I  do  re- 
member with  respect  that  this  idolized  man,  when  the 
letters  were  many  and  rehearsal  already  on,  would  care- 
fully cut  off  every  signature  and  utterly  destroy  them, 
then  pile  the  unread  letters  up,  and,  I  don't  know  what 
their  final  end  was,  but  he  remarked  with  knit  brows, 
as  he  caught  me  watching  him  at  his  work  one  morning : 
"  They,"  pointing  to  the  pile  of  mutilated  letters,  "  they 
are  harmless  now,  little  one ;  their  sting  lies  in  the  tail !  " 
and  when  a  certain  free  and  easy  actor,  laughingly  picked 
up  a  very  elegantly  written  note,  and  said :  "  I  can  read 
it,  can't  I,  now  the  signature  is  gone?"  He  answered, 
shortly :  "  The  woman's  folly  is  no  excuse  for  our 
knavery  —  lay  the  letter  down,  please !  " 

I  played  the  Player-Queen  to  my  great  joy,  and  in  the 
"  Marble  Heart "  I  was  one  of  the  group  of  three  statues 
in  the  first  act.  We  were  supposed  to  represent  Lais, 
Aspasia,  and  Phryne,  and  when  we  read  the  cast,  I  glanced 
at  the  other  girls  (we  were  not  strikingly  handsome), 
and  remarked,  gravely :  "  Well,  it's  a  comfort  to  know 
that  we  look  so  like  the  three  beautiful  Grecians." 

A  laugh  at  our  backs  brought  us  around  suddenly  to 


MR.  BOOTH'S   T  A€T  -  3-0-1 

face  Mr.  Booth,  who  said  to  me:  '' "You- satirical  4ittle 
wretch,  how  do  you  come  to  know  these  Grecian  ladies? 
Perhaps  you  have  the  advantage  of  them  in  being  all- 
beautiful  within  ?  " 

"  I  wish  it  would  strike  outward,  then,"  I  answered ; 
"  you  know  it's  always  best  to  have  things  come  to  the 
surface !  " 

"  I  know  some  very  precious  things  are  hidden  from 
common  sight,  and  I  know,  too,  you  caught  my  meaning 
in  the  first  place;  good-night."  And  he  left  us. 

We  had  been  told  to  descend  to  the  stage  at  night  with 
our  white  robes  hanging  free  and  straight,  that  Mr.  Booth 
himself  might  drape  them  as  we  stood  upon  the  pedestal. 
It  really  is  a  charming  picture,  that  of  the  statues  in  the 
first  act.  Against  a  backing  of  black  velvet,  the  three 
white  figures,  carefully  posed,  strongly  lighted,  stand  out 
so  marble-like,  that  when  they  slowly  turn  their  faces 
and  point  to  their  chosen  master,  the  effect  is  uncanny 
enough  to  chill  the  looker-on. 

Well,  with  white  wigs,  white  tights,  and  white  robes, 
and  half  strangled  with  the  powder  we  had  inhaled  in 
our  efforts  to  make  our  lips  stay  white,  we  cautiously 
descended  the  stairs.  We  dared  not  talk,  we  dared  not 
blink  our  eyes,  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  coat  of  powder ; 
we  were  lifted  to  the  pedestal  and  took  our  places  as  we 
expected  to  stand.  Then  Mr.  Booth  came,  such  a  pict- 
ure in  his  Greek  garments  as  made  even  the  men  exclaim 
at  him,  and  began  to  pose  us.  It  happened  that  one  of 
us  had  very  good  limbs,  one  medium  good,  and  the  third 
had  apparently  walked  on  broom-sticks.  When  Mr. 
Booth  slightly  raised  the  drapery  of  No.  3,  his  features 
gave  a  twist  as  though  he  had  suddenly  tasted  lemon- 
juice,  but,  quick  as  a  flash,  he  said:  "  I  believe  I'll  ad- 
vance you  to  the  centre,  for  the  stately  and  wise  Aspasia." 
The  central  figure  wore  her  draperies  hanging  straight 
to  her  feet,  hence  the  "  advance  "  and  consequent  con- 
cealment of  the  unlovely  limbs.  It  was  quickly  and 
kindly  done,  for  the  girl  was  not  only  spared  mortifica- 


10-2  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

tion, 'baf'in  the '\vord  ''Advance  "  she  saw  a  compliment, 
and  was  happy  accordingly.  Then  my  turn  came;  my 
arm  was  placed  about  Aspasia,  my  head  bent  and  turned 
and  twisted,  my  right  hand  curved  upon  my  breast,  so 
that  the  forefinger  touched  my  chin;  I  felt  I  was  a  per- 
sonified simper,  but  I  was  silent  and  patient  until  the 
arrangement  of  my  draperies  began  —  then  I  squirmed 
anxiously. 

"  Take  care,  take  care !  "  he  cautioned,  "  you  will  sway 
the  others  if  you  move !  "  But,  in  spite  of  the  risk  of  my 
marble  make-up,  I  faintly  groaned :  "  Oh,  dear !  must 
it  be  like  that?" 

Regardless  of  the  pins  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  he 
burst  into  laughter,  and  taking  a  photograph  from  the 
bosom  of  his  Greek  shirt,  he  said :  "  I  expected  a  pro- 
test from  you,  miss,  so  I  came  prepared ;  don't  move  your 
head,  but  just  look  at  this." 

He  held  the  picture  of  a  group  of  statuary  up  to  me: 
"  This  is  you  on  the  right ;  it's  not  so  dreadful,  now, 
is  it  ?  "  and  I  cautiously  murmured,  that  if  I  wasn't  any 
worse  than  that  I  wouldn't  mind. 

And  so  we  were  all  satisfied  and  our  statue  scene  was 
very  successful. 

Next  morning  I  saw  Mr.  Booth  come  running  out  of 
the  theatre  on  his  way  to  the  telegraph  office  at  the  cor- 
ner, and  right  in  the  middle  of  the  walk,  staring  about 
him,  stood  a  child  —  a  small  roamer  of  the  stony  streets, 
who  had  evidently  got  far  enough  beyond  his  native  ward 
to  arouse  misgivings  as  to  his  personal  safety,  and  at  the 
very  moment  he  stopped  to  consider  matters,  Mr.  Booth 
dashed  out  of  the  stage-door  and  added  to  his  bewilder- 
ment by  capsizing  him  completely. 

"  Oh,  good  Lord !  Baby,  are  you  hurt  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mr.  Booth,  pausing  instantly  to  pick  up  the  dirty,  tous- 
elled,  small  heap  and  stand  it  on  its  bandy  legs  again. 

"  Don't  cry,  little  chap !  "  and  the  aforesaid  little  chap 
not  only  ceased  to  cry  but  gave  him  a  damp  and  grimy 
smile,  at  which  the  actor  bent  toward  him  quickly,  but 


IMPROMPTU   BUSINESS  103 

paused,  took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  first  carefully 
wiping  the  dirty  little  nose  and  mouth,  stooped  and 
kissed  him  heartily,  put  some  change  in  each  freckled 
paw,  and  continued  his  run  to  the  telegraph  office. 

He  knew  of  no  witness  to  the  act.  To  kiss  a  pretty, 
clean  child  under  the  approving  eyes  of  mamma  might 
mean  nothing  but  politeness,  but  surely  it  required  the 
prompting  of  a  warm  and  tender  heart  to  make  a  young 
and  thoughtless  man  feel  for  and  caress  such  a  dirty, 
forlorn  bit  of  babyhood  as  that. 

Of  his  work,  I  suppose  I  was  too  young  and  too  igno- 
rant to  judge  correctly,  but  I  remember  well  hearing  the 
older  members  of  the  company  express  their  opinions. 
Mr.  Ellsler,  who  had  been  on  terms  of  friendship  with 
the  elder  Booth,  was  delighted  with  the  promise  of  his 
work.  He  greatly  admired  Edwin's  intellectual  power, 
his  artistic  care,  but  "  John,"  he  cried,  "  has  more  of  the 
old  man's  power  in  one  performance  than  Edwin  can 
show  in  a  year.  He  has  the  fire,  the  dash,  the  touch  of 
strangeness.  He  often  produces  unstudied  effects  at 
night.  I  question  him,  '  Did  you  rehearse  that  business 
to-day,  John  ? '  he  answers :  '  No,  I  didn't  rehearse  it, 
it  just  came  to  me  in  the  scene,  and  I  couldn't  help  doing 
it ;  but  it  went  all  right,  didn't  it  ? '  Full  of  impulse, 
just  now,  like  a  colt,  his  heels  are  in  the  air,  nearly  as 
often  as  his  head,  but  wait  a  year  or  two  till  he  gets 
used  to  the  harness,  and  quiets  down  a  bit,  and  you  will 
see  as  great  an  actor  as  America  can  produce !  " 

And,  by  the  way,  speaking  of  Mr.  Ellsler  and  the  elder 
Booth,  I  am  reminded  that  I  have  in  my  possession  a 
letter  from  the  latter  to  the  former.  It  is  written  in  a 
rather  cramped  hand,  that  carries  the  address  and  the 
marks  of  the  red  wafers,  as  that  was  before  the  appear- 
ance of  envelopes,  and  it  informs  Mr.  Ellsler  that  he, 
"  Junius  Brutus  Booth,  will  play  a  star  engagement  of 
one  week  for  the  sum  of — "  how  many  dollars?  if  it 
were  not  unguessable,  I  should  insist  upon  your  guess- 
ing, but  that  would  not  be  fair,  so  here  it  is  —  "  for  the 


104  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

sum  of  three  hundred  dollars,"  and  wants  to  know  how 
many  and  what  plays  he  is  desired  to  do,  that  he  may 
select  his  wardrobe. 

Think  of  it  —  the  mighty  father  of  our  Edwin  asking 
but  $300  for  a  week  of  such  acting  as  he  could  do,  which, 
if  this  bright,  light-hearted  boy  was  so  much  like  him, 
must  have  been  brilliant  indeed. 

One  morning,  going  on  the  stage  where  a  group  were 
talking  with  John  Wilkes,  I  heard  him  say :  "  No !  no, 
no !  there's  but  one  Hamlet  to  my  mind,  that's  my  brother 
Edwin.  You  see,  between  ourselves,  he  is  Hamlet, 
melancholy  and  all !  " 

That  was  an  awful  time  when  the  dread  news  came 
to  us.  We  were  in  Columbus.  We  had  been  horrified 
by  the  great  crime  at  Washington.  My  room-mate  and 
I  had  from  our  small  earnings  bought  some  black  cotton, 
at  a  tripled  price,  as  all  the  black  material  in  the  city  was 
not  sufficient  to  meet  the  demand,  and  as  we  tacked  it 
about  our  one  window,  a  man,  passing,  told  us  the  assassin 
had  been  discovered,  and  that  he  was  the  actor  Booth. 
Hattie  laughed  so  she  nearly  swallowed  the  tack  that, 
girl-like,  she  held  between  her  lips,  and  I,  after  a  laugh, 
told  him  it  was  a  poor  subject  for  a  jest,  and  we  went 
in.  There  was  no  store  in  Columbus  then  where  play- 
books  were  sold,  and  as  Mr.  Ellsler  had  a  very  large  and 
complete  stage  library,  he  frequently  lent  his  books  to 
us,  and  we  would  hurriedly  copy  out  our  lines  and  re- 
turn the  book  for  his  own  use.  On  that  occasion  he  was 
going  to  study  his  part  first  and  then  leave  the  play  with 
us  as  he  passed  going  home.  We  heard  his  knock;  I 
was  busy  pressing  a  bit  of  stage  finery.  Hattie  opened 
the  door,  and  then  I  heard  her  exclaiming :  "  Why  — 
why  —  what  ?  "  I  turned  quickly.  Mr.  Ellsler  was  com- 
ing slowly  into  the  room.  He  is  a  very  dark  man,  but  he 
was  perfectly  livid  then,  his  lips  even  were  blanched  to 
the  whiteness  of  his  cheeks.  His  eyes  were  dreadful,  they 
were  so  glassy  and  seemed  so  unseeing.  He  was  de- 
voted to  his  children,  and  all  I  could  think  of  as  likely 


THE  SLAYER  OF  LINCOLN       105 

to  bring  such  a  look  upon  his  face  was  disaster  to  one 
of  them,  and  I  cried,  as  I  drew  a  chair  to  him,  "  What 
is  it  ?  Oh,  what  has  happened  to  them  ?  " 

He  sank  down,  he  wiped  his  brow,  he  looked  almost 
stupidly  at  me,  then,  very  faintly,  he  said :  "  You  — 
haven't  —  heard  —  anything  ?  " 

Like  a  flash  Hattie's  eyes  and  mine  met;  we  thought 
of  the  supposed  ill-timed  jest  of  the  stranger  —  my  lips 
moved  wordlessly.  Hattie  stammered :  "  A  man,  he 
lied  though,  said  that  Wilkes  Booth  — but  he  did  lie 
—  didn't  he  ?  "  and  in  the  same  faint  voice  Mr.  Ellsler 
answered,  slowly :  "  No  —  no !  he  did  not  lie  —  it's  too 
true!" 

Down  fell  our  heads  and  the  waves  of  shame  and  sor- 
row seemed  fairly  to  o'erwhelm  us,  and  while  our  sobs 
filled  the  little  room,  Mr.  Ellsler  rose  and  laid  two  play- 
books  on  the  table.  Then,  while  standing  there,  staring 
into  space,  I  heard  his  far,  faint  voice,  saying :  "  So 
great,  so  good  a  man  destroyed,  and  by  the  hand  of  that 
unhappy  boy !  my  God !  my  God !  "  He  wiped  his  brow 
again  and  slowly  left  the  house,  apparently  unconscious 
of  our  presence. 

When  we  resumed  our  work  —  the  theatre  had  closed 
because  of  the  national  calamity  —  many  a  painted  cheek 
showed  runnels  made  by  bitter  tears,  and  one  old  actress, 
with  quivering  lips,  exclaimed :  "  One  woe  doth  tread 
upon  another's  heel,  so  fast  they  follow !  "  but  with  no 
thought  of  quoting,  and  God  knows  the  words  expressed 
the  situation  perfectly. 

Mrs.  Ellsler,  whom  I  never  saw  shed  a  tear  for  any 
sickness,  sorrow,  or  trouble  of  her  own,  shed  tears  for 
the  mad  boy  who  had  suddenly  become  the  assassin  of 
God's  anointed  —  the  great,  the  blameless  Lincoln! 

We  crept  about,  quietly,  everyone  winced  at  the  sound 
of  the  overture;  it  was  as  if  one  dead  lay  within  the 
walls,  one  who  belonged  to  us. 

When  the  rumors  about  Booth  being  the  murderer 
proved  to  be  authentic,  the  police  feared  a  possible  out- 


io6  LIFE   ON    THE   STAGE 

break  of  mob-feeling,  and  a  demonstration  against  the 
theatre  building,  or  against  the  actors  individually;  but 
we  had  been  a  decent,  law-abiding,  well-behaved  people, 
liked  and  respected,  so  we  were  not  made  to  suffer 
for  the  awful  act  of  one  of  our  number.  Still,  when 
the  mass-meeting  was  held  in  front  of  the  Capitol,  there 
was  much  anxiety  on  the  subject,  and  Mr.  Ellsler  urged 
all  the  company  to  keep  away  from  it,  lest  their  presence 
might  arouse  some  ill-feeling.  The  crowd  was  immense ; 
the  sun  had  gloomed  over,  and  the  Capitol  building, 
draped  in  black,  loomed  up  with  stern  severity  and  that 
massive  dignity  only  obtained  by  heavily  columned  build- 
ings. The  people  surged  like  waves  about  the  speakers' 
stand,  and  the  policemen  glanced  anxiously  toward  the 
new  theatre,  not  far  away,  and  prayed  that  some  bom- 
bastic, revengeful  ruffian  might  not  crop  up  from  this 
mixed  crowd  of  excited  humanity  to  stir  them  to 
violence. 

Three  speakers,  however,  in  their  addresses  had  con- 
fined themselves  to  eulogizing  the  great  dead.  In  life, 
Mr.  Lincoln  had  been  abused  by  many ;  in  death,  he  was 
worshipped  by  all,  and  these  speakers  found  their  words 
of  love  and  sorrow  eagerly  listened  to,  and  made  no  harsh 
allusions  to  the  profession  from  which  the  assassin 
sprang.  And  then  an  unknown  man  clambered  up  from 
the  crowd  to  the  portico  platform  and  began  to  speak, 
without  asking  anyone's  permission.  He  had  a  far- 
reaching  voice  —  he  had  fire  and  "  go." 

"  Here's  the  fellow  to  look  out  for !  "  said  the  police- 
man, and,  sure  enough,  suddenly  the  dread  word  "  the- 
atre "  was  tossed  into  the  air,  and  everyone  was  still  in 
a  moment,  waiting  for  —  what  ?  I  don't  know  what  they 
hoped  for,  I  do  know  what  many  feared;  but  this  is 
what  he  said :  "  Yes,  look  over  at  our  theatre  and  think 
of  the  little  body  of  men  and  women  there,  who  are  to- 
day sore-hearted  and  cast  down,  who  feel  that  they  are 
looked  at  askant,  because  one  of  their  number  has  com- 
mitted that  hideous  crime !  Think  of  what  they  have  to 


PLAYING   HIS   LAST   PART        107 

bear  of  shame  and  horror,  and  spare  for  them,  too,  a 
little  pity !  " 

He  paused ;  it  had  been  a  bold  thing  to  do  —  to  appeal 
for  consideration  for  actors  at  such  a  time.  The  crowd 
swayed  for  a  moment  to  and  fro,  a  curious  growling 
came  from  it,  and  then  all  heads  turned  toward  the 
theatre.  A  faint  cheer  was  given,  and  after  that  there 
was  not  the  slightest  allusion  made  to  us  —  and  verily 
we  were  grateful. 

That  the  homely,  tender-hearted  "  Father  Abraham," 
rare  combination  of  courage,  justice,  and  humanity,  died 
at  an  actor's  hand  will  be  a  grief,  a  horror,  and  a  shame 
to   the  profession   forever  —  yet   I   cannot  believe  that   r 
John  Wilkes  Booth  was  "  the  leader  of  a  band  of  bloody  '* ,  <y   * 
conspirators !  " 

Who  shall  draw,  a  line  and  say:   here  genius  ends  and    ^fB 
madness  begins  ?     There  was  that  touch  of  "  strangeness." 
In  Edwin  Booth  it  was  a  profound  melancholy ;   in  John, 
it   was   an   exaggeration   of   spirit,    almost   a   wildnessj 
There  was  the  natural  vanity  of  the  actor,  too,  who  crave? 
a  dramatic  situation  in  real  life.    There  was  his  passion- 
ate  love  and   sympathy  for   the   South  —  why,   he   was 
"easier  to  be  played  on  than  a  pipe !  " 

Undoubtedly  he  conspired  to  kidnap  the  President  — 
that  would  appeal  to  him,  but  after  that  I  truly  believe 
he  was  a  tool,  certainly  he  was  no  leader.  Those  who 
led  him  knew  his  courage,  his  belief  in  fate,  his  loyalty 
to  his  friends;  and  because  they  knew  these  things,  he 
drew  the  lot,  as  it  was  meant  he  should  from  the  first. 
Then,  half  mad,  he  accepted  the  part  Fate  cast  him  for 
—  committed  the  monstrous  crime  and  paid  the  awful 
price. 

And  since, 

"  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform," 

we  venture  to  pray  for  His  mercy  upon  the  guilty  soul ! 
who  may  have  repented  and  confessed  his  manifold  sins 


io8  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

and  offences  during  those  awful  hours  of  suffering  be- 
fore the  end  came. 

And  "  God  shutteth  not  up  His  mercies  forever  in  dis- 
pleasure !  "  We  can  only  shiver  and  turn  our  thoughts 
away  from  the  bright  light  that  went  out  in  such  utter 
darkness.  Poor,  guilty,  unhappy  John  Wilkes  Booth! 


CHAPTER  FIFTEENTH 

Mr.  R.  E.  J.  Miles — His  two  Horses,  and  our  Woful 
Experience  with  the  Substitute  "  Wild  Horse  of  Tar- 
tary." 

BUT  there,  just  as  I  start  to  speak  of  my  third  sea- 
son, I  seem  to  look  into  a  pair  of  big,  mild  eyes 
that  say :    "  Can  it  be  that  you  mean  to  pass  me 
by?    Do  you  forget  that  'twas  I  who  turned  the  great 
sensation  scene  of  a  play  into  a  side-splitting  farce  ?  " 
And  I  shake  my  head  and  answer,  truthfully :    "  I  can- 
not forget,  I  shall  never  forget  your  work  that  night  in 
Columbus,  when  you  appeared  as  the  '  fiery,  untamed 
steed '  (may  Heaven  forgive  you)  in  '  Mazeppa.' ' 

Mr.  Robert  E.  J.  Miles,  or  "  All  the  Alphabet  Miles," 
as  he  was  frequently  called,  was  starring  at  that  time  in 
the  Horse  Drama,  doing  such  plays  as  "  The  Cataract 
of  the  Ganges,"  "  Mazeppa,"  "  Sixteen-String  Jack,"  etc. 
"  Mazeppa  "  was  the  favorite  in  Columbus,  and  both  the 
star  and  manager  regretted  they  had  billed  the  other  plays 
in  advance,  as  there  would  have  been  more  money  in 
"  Mazeppa "  alone.  Mi*x31iles  carried  with  him  two 
horses ;  the  one  for  the  "  Wild  Horse  of  Tartary  "  was 
an  exquisitely  formed,  satin-coated  creature,  who  looked 
wickedly  at  you  from  the  tail  of  her  blazing  eye,  who 
bared  her  teeth  savagely,  and  struck  out  with  her  fore- 
feet, as  well  as  lashed  out  with  the  hind  ones.  When 
she  came  rearing,  plunging,  biting,  snapping,  whirling, 
and  kicking  her  way  on  to  the  stage,  the  scarlet  lining 
of  her  dilating  nostrils  and  the  foam  flying  from  her 
mouth  made  our  screams  very  natural  ones,  and  the 
women  in  front  used  to  huddle  close  to  their  compan- 
ions, or  even  cover  their  faces. 

109 


no  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

One  creature  only  did  this  beautiful  vixen  love  —  R. 
E.  J.  Miles.  She  fawned  upon  him  like  a  dog;  she  did 
tricks  like  a  dog  for  him,  but  she  was  a  terror  to  the 
rest  of  mankind,  and  really  it  was  a  thrilling  scene  when 
Mazeppa  was  stripped  and  bound,  his  head  tail-ward,  his 
feet  mane-ward,  to  the  back  of  that  maddened  beast. 
She  seemed  to  bite  and  tear  at  him,  and  when  set  free 
she  stood  straight  up  for  a  dreadful  moment,  in  which 
she  really  endangered  his  life,  then,  with  a  wild  neigh, 
she  tore  up  the  "  runs,"  as  if  fiends  pursued  her,  with 
the  man  stretched  helplessly  along  her  inky  back.  The 
curtain  used  to  go  up  again  and  again  —  it  was  so  very 
effective. 

For  a  horse  to  get  from  the  level  stage  clear  above 
the  "  flies,"  under  the  very  roof,  the  platforms  or  runs 
he  mounts  on  have  to  zig-zag  across  the  mountain  back- 
ground. 

At  each  angle,  out  of  sight  of  the  audience,  there  is  a 
railed  platform,  large  enough  for  the  horse  to  turn  upon 
and  make  the  next  upward  rush. 

The  other  horse  travelling  with  Mr.  Miles  was  an  en- 
tirely different  proposition.  He  would  have  been  de- 
scribed, according  to  the  State  he  happened  to  be  in,  as 
a  pie-bald,  a  skew-bald,  a  pinto,  or  a  calico  horse.  He 
was  very  large,  mostly  of  a  satiny  white,  with  big,  ab- 
surdly shaped  markings  of  bright  bay.  He  was  one  of 
the  breed  of  horses  that  in  livery  stables  are  always 
known  as  "  Doctor  "  or  "  Judge."  Benevolence  beamed 
from  his  large,  clear  eyes,  and  he  looked  so  mildly  wise, 
one  -half  expected  to  see  him  put  on  spectacles.  The  boy 
at  the  stable  said  one  day,  as  he  fed  him :  "  I  wouldn't 
wunder  if  this  ol'  parson  of  'er  a  hoss  asked  a  blessin'  on 
them  there  oats  —  I  wouldn't !  " 

I  don't  know  whether  old  Bob  —  as  he  was  called  — 
had  any  speed  or  not,  but  if  he  had  it  was  useless  to  him, 
for,  alas !  he  was  never  allowed  to  reach  the  goal  under 
any  circumstances.  He  was  always  ridden  by  the  villain, 
and  therefore  had  to  be  overtaken,  and  besides  that  he 


THE  WILD  HORSE  OF  TARTARY     111 

generally  had  to  carry  double,  as  the  desperado  usually 
fled  holding  the  fainting  heroine  before  him.  Though 
old  Bob  successfully  leaped  chasms  thus  heavily  handi- 
capped—  for  truly  he  was  a  mighty  juniper  —  neverthe- 
less he  was  compelled  to  accept  defeat,  as  Mr.  Miles  al- 
ways came  rushing  up  on  the  black  horse  to  the  rescue. 
He  was  very  lucky  indeed,  if  he  didn't  have  to  roll  about 
and  die,  and  he  was  a  very  impatient  dead  horse,  often 
amusing  the  audience  by  lifting  his  head  to  see  if  the  cur- 
tain was  not  down  yet,  and  then  dropping  dead  again  with 
a  sigh  the  whole  house  could  hear. 

By  the  way,  "  the  house  "  is  a  theatrical  term,  mean- 
ing, on  an  actor's  lips,  "  the  audience."  "  The  house  did 
thus  or  so,"  "  the  house  is  behaving  beautifully,"  "  it's 
the  most  refined  house  you  ever  saw,"  "  what  a  cold 
house  " ;  and  so  on.  I  have  but  rarely  heard  either  actor 
or  actress  refer  to  the  "  audience  "  —  and  after  steadily 
using  any  term  for  years  it  is  very  hard  to  lay  it  aside, 
and  I  shall  long  remember  the  grim  moment  that  fol- 
lowed on  my  remarking  to  my  rector,  "  What  a  good 
house  you  had  yesterday  —  it  must  have  been  a  pleasure 
to  pla — to,  to — er,  er,  to  address  such  an  audi — er,  that 
is,  I  mean  congregation !  "  There  was  a  moment  of  icy 
silence,  then,  being  a  human  being  as  well  as  a  wearer 
of  the  priestly  collar,  he  set  back  his  head  and  laughed 
a  laugh  that  was  good  to  hear. 

Anyway,  being  continually  pushed  back  into  second 
place  and  compelled  to  listen  to  the.  unearned  applause 
bestowed  upon  the  beautiful  black  seemed  to  rob  old 
Bob  of  all  ambition  professionally,  and  he  simply  became 
a  gourmet  and  a  glutton.  He  lived  to  eat.  A  woman 
in  his  eyes  was  a  sort  of  perambulating  store-house  of 
cake,  crackers,  apples,  sugar,  etc. ;  only  his  love  for  chil- 
dren was  disinterested.  The  moment  he  was  loose  he 
went  off  in  search  for  children,  no  matter  whose,  so  long 
as  he  found  some ;  then  down  he  would  go  on  his  knees, 
and  wait  to  be  pulled  and  patted.  His  silvery  tail  pro- 
vided hundreds  of  horse-hair  rings  —  and  his  habit  of 


112  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

gathering  very  small  people  up  by  their  back  breadths 
and  carrying  them  a  little  way  before  dropping  them, 
only  filled  the  air  with  wild  shrieks  of  laughter.  In  the 
theatre  he  walked  sedately  about  before  rehearsal  began, 
and  though  we  knew  his  attentions  were  entirely  selfish, 
he  was  so  urbane,  so  complaisant  in  his  manner  of  going 
through  us,  that  we  could  not  resist  his  advances,  and 
each  day  and  night  we  packed  our  pockets  and  our  muffs 
with  such  provender  as  women  seldom  carry  about  in 
their  clothes.  All  our  gloves  smelled  as  though  we 
worked  at  a  cider-mill.  While  the  play  was  going  on 
old  Bob  spent  a  great  part  of  his  time  standing  on  the 
first  of  those  railed  platforms,  and  as  he  was  on  the  same 
side  of  the  stage  that  the  ladies'  dressing-rooms  were  on, 
everyone  of  us  had  to  pass  him  on  our  way  to  dress, 
and  he  demanded  toll  of  all.  Fruits,  domestic  or  foreign, 
were  received  with  gentle  eagerness.  Cake,  crackers,  and 
sugar,  the  velvety  nose  snuffed  at  them  approvingly,  and 
if  a  girl,  believing  herself  late,  tried  to  pass  him  swiftly 
by,  his  look  of  amazement  was  comical  to  behold,  and 
in  an  instant  his  iron-shod  foot  was  playing  a  veritable 
devil's  tattoo  on  the  resounding  board  platform,  and  if 
that  failed  to  win  attention,  following  her  with  his  eyes, 
he  lifted  up  his  voice  in  a  full-chested  "  neigh  —  hay  - 
hay  —  ha-ay !  "  that  brought  her  back  in  a  hurry  with  her 
toll  of  sugar.  And  that  pie-bald  hypocrite  would  scrunch 
it  with  such  a  piteously  ravenous  air  that  the  girl  quite 
forgot  the  basilisk  glare  and  satirical  words  the  landlady 
directed  against  her  recently-acquired  sweet-tooth.  My 
own  landlady  had,  as  early  as  Wednesday,  covered  the 
sugar-bowl  and  locked  the  pantry,  but  she  left  the  salt- 
bag  open,  and  I  took  on  a  full  cargo  of  it  twice  a  day, 
and  old  Bob  showed  such  an  absolute  carnality  of  en- 
joyment in  the  eating  of  it  that  Mr.  Miles  became  con- 
vinced that  it  had  long  been  denied  to  him  at  the  stables. 
Then,  late  in  the  week,  there  came  that  dreadful  night 
of  disaster.  I  don't  recall  the  name  of  the  play,  but  in 
that  one  piece  the  beautiful,  high-spirited  black  mare  had 


QUEEN'S   LAST   RUN  113 

to  carry  double  up  the  runs.  John  Carroll  and  Miss  Lucy 
Cutler  were  the  riders.  Mr.  Carroll  claimed  he  could 
ride  a  little,  and  though  he  was  afraid  he  was  ashamed 
to  say  so.  Mr.  Miles  said  in  the  morning:  "Now,  if 
you  are  the  least  bit  timid,  Mr.  Carroll,  say  so,  and  I 
will  fasten  the  bridle-reins  to  the  saddle-pommel  and  the 
Queen  will  carry  you  up  as  true  as  a  die  and  as  safe  as 
a  rock  of  her  own  accord ;  but  if  you  are  going  to  hold 
the  bridle,  for  God's  sake  be  careful !  If  it  was  old  Bob, 
you  could  saw  him  as  much  as  you  liked  and  he  would 
pay  no  attention,  and  hug  the  run  for  dear  life;  but  the 
Queen,  who  has  a  tender  mouth,  is  besides  half  mad  with 
excitement  at  night,  and  a  very  slight  pressure  on  the 
wrong  rein  will  mean  a  forty  or  fifty-foot  fall  for  you 
all!" 

Miss  Cutler  expressed  great  fear,  when  Mr.  Miles,  sur- 
prisedly,  said :  "  Why,  you  have  ridden  with  me  twice 
this  week  without  a  sign  of  fear  ? "  "  Oh,  yes,"  she 
answered,  "  but  you  know  what  you  are  doing  —  you  are 
a  horseman." 

It  was  an  unfortunate  speech,  and  in  face  of  it  Mr. 
Carroll's  vanity  would  not  allow  him  to  admit  his  anxi- 
ety. "  He  could  ride  well  enough  —  and  he  would 
handle  the  reins  himself,"  he  declared. 

During  the  day  his  fears  grew  upon  him.  Foolishly 
and  wickedly  he  resorted  to  spirits  to  try  to  build  up 
some  Dutch  courage;  and  then,  when  the  scene  came 
on,  half  blind  with  fear  and  the  liquor,  which  he  was 
not  used  to,  as  he  felt  the  fierce  creature  beneath  them 
rushing  furiously  up  the  steep  incline,  a  sort  of  madness 
came  upon  him.  Without  rhyme  or  reason  he  pulled 
desperately  at  the  nigh  rein  and  in  the  same  breath  their 
three  bodies  were  hurling  downward,  like  thunder- 
bolts. 

It  was  an  awful  sight!  I  looked  at  them  as  they 
descended,  and  for  the  fraction  of  a  second  they  seemed 
to  be  suspended  in  the  air.  They  were  all  upside  down. 
They  all,  without  turning  or  twisting,  fell  straight  as 


114  LIFE   ON    THE   STAGE 

plummets  —  the  horse,  the  same  as  the  man  and  woman, 
had  its  feet  straight  in  the  air.  Ugh !  the  striking  — 
ugh !  —  never  mind  details !  The  curtain  had  been 
rushed  down.  Miss  Cutler  had  been  picked  up,  dazed, 
stunned,  but  without  a  mark.  Mr.  Carroll  had  crept 
away  unaided  amid  the  confusion,  the  sorrow,  and  tears, 
for  the  splendid  Queen  was  doomed  and  done  for! 
Though  Mr.  Miles  had  risked  his  own  life  in  an  awful 
leap  to  save  her  from  falling  through  a  trap,  he  could 
not  save  her  life,  and  the  almost  human  groan  with  which 
she  dropped  her  lovely  head  upon  her  master's  shoulder, 
and  his  streaming  eyes  as  he  tenderly  wiped  the  blood 
from  her  velvety  nostrils,  made  even  the  scene-shifters 
rub  their  eyes  upon  the  backs  of  their  hands.  While  the 
Queen  was  half  carried  and  half  crept  to  the  fire-engine 
house  next  door  (her  stable  was  so  far  away),  someone 
was  going  before  the  curtain,  assuring  the  audience  that 
the  accident  was  very  slight,  and  the  lady  and  gentle- 
man would  both  be  before  them  presently,  and  the  audi- 
ence applauded  in  a  rather  doubtful  manner,  for  several 
ladies  had  fainted,  and  the  carrying  out  of  a  helpless 
person  from  a  place  of  amusement  always  has  a  depress- 
ing effect  upon  the  lookers-on.  Meantime  Mr.  Carroll  was 
getting  his  wrist  bandaged  and  a  cut  on  his  face  strapped 
up,  while  a  basket  of  sawdust  was  hurriedly  procured 
that  certain  cruel  stains  might  be  concealed.  The  or- 
chestra played  briskly  and  the  play  went  on.  That's  the 
one  thing  we  can  be  sure  of  in  this  world  —  that  the 
play  will  go  on.  That  night,  late,  the  beautiful  Queen 
died  with  her  head  resting  on  her  master's  knee. 

Now  "  Mazeppa  "  was  billed  for  the  next  night,  and 
there  were  many  consultations  held  in  the  office  and  on 
the  stage.  "  The  wild  horse  of  Tartary  "  was  gone.  It 
was  impossible  to  find  a  new  horse  in  one  day. 

"  Change  the  bill !  "  said  Mr.  Miles. 

"  And  have  an  empty  house,"  answered  Mr.  Ellsler. 

"  But  what  can  I  do  for  a  horse  ?  "  asked  R.  E.  J.  M. 

"  Use  old  Bob,"  answered  Mr.  Ellsler. 


THE  FIERY,  UNTAMED  STEED     115 

"  Good  Lord !  "  groaned  Bob's  master.  They  argued 
long,  but  neither  wanted  to  lose  the  good  house,  so  the 
bill  was  allowed  to  stand,  and  "  Mazeppa "  was  per- 
formed with  old  white  Bob  as  the  "  Wild  Horse  of  Tar- 
tary."  Think  of  it,  that  ingratiating  old  Bob !  That 
follower  of  women  and  playmate  of  children !  Why, 
even  the  great  bay  blotches  on  his  white  old  hide  made 
one  think  of  the  circus,  paper  hoops,  and  training,  rather 
than  of  wildness.  Meaning  to  make  him  at  least  impa- 
tient and  restless,  he  had  been  deprived  of  his  supper, 
and  the  result  was  a  settled  gloom,  an  air  of  melancholy 
that  made  Mr.  Miles  swear  under  his  breath  every  time 
he  looked  at  him.  There  was  a  ring,  known  I  believe  as 
a  Spanish  ring,  made  with  a  sharp  little  spike  attachment, 
and  used  sometimes  by  circus-men  to  stir  up  horses  to 
a  show  of  violence  or  of  high  spirits,  and  when  a  whip 
was  not  permissible.  It  could  be  resorted  to  without 
arousing  any  suspicion  of  cruelty,  since  the  spike  was  on 
the  under  side  and  so  out  of  sight.  The  man  with  the 
ring  on  his  finger  would  stand  by  a  horse,  and  resting 
his  hand  on  the  animal's  neck,  just  at  the  most  sensitive 
spot  of  his  whole  anatomy  —  the  root  or  end  of  his  mane 
-  would  close  the  hand  suddenly,  thus  driving  the  spike 
into  the  flesh.  It  must  have  caused  exquisite  pain,  and 
naturally  the  tormented  animal  rears  and  plunges.  Some- 
times they  get  effect  enough  by  pricking  the  creatures  on 
the  shoulder  only.  On  that  night,  Mr.  Miles,  after  gaz- 
ing at  the  mild  and  melancholy  features  of  his  new 
"  Wild  Horse  of  Tartary,"  went  to  his  room  and  dug 
up  from  some  trunk  a  Spanish  ring.  Calling  one  of  the 
men  who  used  to  be  dragged  and  thrashed  about  the 
stage  by  the  black  wild  horse,  he  explained  to  him  its 
use,  ending  with :  "  I  hate  to  hurt  the  old  fellow,  so  try 
him  on  the  shoulder  first,  and  if  he  dances  about  pretty 
lively,  as  I  think  he  will,  you  need  not  prick  his  mane 
at  all." 

The  play  moved  along  nicely,  the  house  was  large,  and 
seemed  pleased.  Mazeppa  fell  into  his  enemy's  hands, 


ii6  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

the  sentence  was  pronounced,  and  the  order  followed: 
"  Bring  forth  the  fiery,  untamed  steed !  " 

The  women  began  to  draw  close  to  their  escorts; 
many  of  them  remembered  the  biting,  kicking  entrance 
of  the  black,  and  were  frightened  beforehand.  The  or- 
chestra responded  with  incidental  creepy  music,  but  — 
that  was  all.  Over  in  the  entrance,  old  Bob,  surrounded 
by  the  four  men  who  were  supposed  to  restrain  him,  stood 
calmly.  But  those  who  sat  in  the  left  box  heard  "  get- 
ups !  "  and  "  go-ons !  "  and  the  duckings  of  many  tongues. 
The  mighty  Khan  of  Tartary  (who  could  not  see  that 
entrance)  thought  he  had  not  been  heard,  and  roared 
again :  "  Bring  forth  the  fiery,  untamed  steed !  "  An- 
other pause,  the  house  tittered,  then  some  one  hit  old  Bob 
a  crack  across  the  rump  with  a  whip,  at  which  he  gave 
a  switch  of  his  tail  and  gently  ambled  on  the  stage, 
stopping  of  his  own  accord  at  centre,  and,  lowering  his 
head,  he  stretched  his  neck  and  sniffed  at  the  leader  of 
the  orchestra,  precisely  as  a  dog  sniffs  at  a  stranger.  It 
was  deliciously  ridiculous.  We  girls  were  supposed  to 
scream  with  terror  at  the  "  wild  horse,"  and,  alas !  we 
were  only  too  obedient,  crowding  down  at  right,  clinging 
together  in  attitudes  of  extremest  fright,  we  shrieked  and 
screeched  until  old  Bob  cocked  up  his  ears  and  looked 
so  astonished  at  our  conduct  that  the  audience  simply 
rocked  back  and  forth  with  laughter,  and  all  the  time 
Mazeppa  was  saying  things  that  did  not  seem  to  be  like 
prayers.  Finally  he  gave  orders  for  the  men  to  surround 
Bob,  which  they  did,  and  then  the  ring  was  used  —  the 
ring  that  was  to  make  him  dance  about  pretty  lively.  It 
pricked  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  "  wild  horse  "  stood 
and  switched  his  tail.  It  pricked  him  again  —  he  switched 
his  tail  again.  The  men  had  by  that  time  grown  care- 
less, and  when  the  ring  was  finally  used  at  his  mane,  he 
suddenly  kicked  one  of  them  clear  off  the  stage,  and  then 
resumed  his  unruffled  calm.  The  public  thought  it  was 
having  fun  all  this  time,  but  pretty  soon  it  knew  it. 
Nothing  under  heaven  could  disturb  the  gentle  serenity 


ANYTHING   BUT   FIERY  117 

of  that  dog-like  old  horse.  But  when  Mazeppa  was 
brought  forward  to  be  bound  upon  his  back,  instead  of 
pulling  away,  rearing,  and  fighting  against  the  burden, 
his  one  and  only  quick  movement  was  his  violent  eHort 
to  break  away  from  his  tormentors  to  welcome  Mazeppa 
joyously. 

"  Oh !  "  groaned  Miles,  "  kill  him,  somebody,  before 
he  kills  me !  " 

While  he  was  being  bound  on  the  wild  horse's  back, 
our  instructions  were  to  scream,  therefore  we  screamed 
as  before,  and  being  on  the  verge  of  insanity,  Mazeppa 
lifted  his  head  from  the  horse's  back,  and  said :  "  Oh, 
shut  up  —  do !  "  The  audience  heard,  and  —  well,  it 
laughed  some  more,  and  then  it  discovered,  when  the 
men  sprang  away  and  left  the  horse  free  to  dash  madly 
up  the  mountain,  that  Mazeppa  had  kept  one  foot  un- 
bound to  kick  his  horse  with  —  and  truly  it  did  seem 
that  the  audience  was  going  into  convulsions.  Such 
laughter,  pierced  every  now  and  then  by  the  shrill  scream 
of  hysteria.  Then  old  Bob  ambled  up  the  first  run  all 
right,  but,  alas!  for  poor  Mazeppa,  as  he  reached  the 
first  turn-table,  a  woman  passed  on  the  way  to  her  room, 
and  hungry  Bob  instantly  stopped  to  negotiate  a  loan  in 
sugar.  Oh,  it  was  dreadful,  the  wait,  and  when  finally 
he  reappeared,  trotting  —  yes,  trotting  up  the  next  run, 
Mr.  Miles's  foot  could  be  plainly  seen,  kicking  with  the 
regularity  of  a  piston-rod,  while  his  remarks  were  — 
well,  they  were  irregular  in  the  extreme. 

Of  course  the  play  was  hopelessly  ruined;  the  audi- 
ence laughed  at  the  slightest  mention  of  the  "  wild  horse," 
and  when,  broken  and  exhausted,  the  shepherds  find 
them  both  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  the  house 
seemed  to  shake  with  laughter. 

When  the  play  was  at  last  over,  old  white  Bob  walked 
over  to  his  master  and  mumbled  his  hand.  Mr.  Miles 
pushed  him  away  with  pretended  anger,  crying :  "  You 
infernal  old  idiot,  I'd  sell  you  for  a  three-cent  stamp 
with  gum  on  it ! " 


ii8  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

Bob  looked  hard  at  him  a  moment,  then  he  calmly 
crossed  behind  him  and  mumbled  his  other  hand,  and 
Mr.  Miles  pulled  his  ears,  and  said  that  "  he  himself 
was  the  idiot  for  expecting  an  untrained,  unrehearsed 
horse  to  play  such  a  part,"  and  old  Bob  agreeing  with 
him  perfectly,  they  were,  as  always,  at  peace  with  each 
other. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEENTH 

I  perform  a  Remarkable  Feat,  I  Study  King  Charles  in 
One  Afternoon  and  Play  Without  a  Rehearsal  —  Mrs. 
D.  P.  Bowers  makes  Odd  Revelation. 

ALREADY  in  that  third  season  my  position  had 
become  an  anomalous  one,  from  that  occasion 
when,  because  of  sickness,  I  had  in  one  afternoon 
studied,  letter  perfect,  the  part  of  King  Charles  in  "  Faint 
Heart  Never  Won  Fair  Lady,"  and  played  it  in  borrowed 
clothes  and  without  any  rehearsal  whatever,  other  than 
finding  the  situations  plainly  marked  in  the  book.  It  was 
an  astonishing  thing  to  do,  and  nearly  everyone  had  a 
kind  word  for  me.  The  stage  manager,  or  rather  the 
prompter,  for  Mr.  Ellsler  was  his  own  stage  manager, 
patted  me  on  the  shoulder  and  said :  "  Ton  my  soul, 
girl,  you're  a  wonder!  I  think  pretty  well  of  my  own 
study,  but  you  can  beat  me.  You  never  missed  a  word, 
and  besides  that  I've  seen  the  part  played  worse  many 
a  time.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,  my  dear,  but 
a  girl  that  can  do  that  can  do  most  anything." 

Ah,  yes !  and  that  was  just  what  the  powers  that  were 
seemed  to  think  —  that  I  could  do  almost  anything,  for 
from  that  day  I  became  a  sort  of  dramatic  scape-goat, 
to  play  the  parts  of  the  sick,  the  halt,  the  cross,  the 
tricky,  for  whenever  an  actor  or  actress  turns  up  with 
a  remarkable  study  —  the  ability  to  learn  almost  any  part 
in  a  given  time  —  he  or  she  is  bound  to  be  "  put  upon." 
Sickness  will  increase,  tempers  will  get  shorter,  airs  of 
superiority  will  be  assumed,  all  because  there  is  some- 
one ready  to  play  the  obnoxious  part,  someone  ready  to 
rush  into  the  breach  and  prevent  the  changing  of  the 
"  bill." 

119 


120  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

So  often  was  I  playing  parts,  thus  leaving  only  two 
in  the  ballet,  that  another  girl  was  engaged.  Thus  to 
Hattie,  Annie,  and  Clara  there  was  added  Mary.  And 
lo!  in  this  young  woman  I  recognized  a  friend  of  my 
youth.  I  had  known  her  but  two  days,  but  I  could  never 
forget  the  only  child  I  had  ever  had  a  play  with.  She 
had  parted  from  me  in  wrath  because,  after  playing 
house-keeping  all  morning  in  the  yard,  I  had  refused  to 
eat  a  clay  dumpling  she  had  made,  with  a  nice  green 
clover-leaf  in  its  middle.  She  threw  the  dumpling  at  me, 
roaring  like  a  little  bull  calf,  and  twisting  a  dirty  small 
fist  into  each  dry  eye,  she  waddled  off  home,  leaving  me, 
finger  in  mouth,  gazing  in  pained  amazement  after  her, 
until  my  fat  little  legs  suddenly  gave  way,  as  was  their 
wont  in  moments  of  great  emotion,  and  sat  me  unwill- 
ingly but  flatly  down  upon  the  ground,  where  I  remained, 
looking  gravely  at  them  and  wondering  what  they  did 
it  for  —  and  now  here  we  were  together  again. 

Of  course  this  playing  of  many  parts  was,  in  a  cer- 
tain way,  an  advantage  to  me,  and  I  appreciated  it;  but 
there  can  be  too  much  even  of  a  good  thing.  That  I  got 
little  pay  for  all  this  work  was  nothing  to  me,  I  was 
glad  to  do  it  for  the  experience  it  gave  me,  but  when  I 
was  forced  to  appear  ridiculous  through  my  inability  to 
dress  the  parts  correctly  I  suffered  cruelly.  Once  in  a 
while,  as  in  the  case  of  King  Charles,  I  could  get  a  cos- 
tume from  the  theatre  wardrobe,  where  the  yellow  plush 
breeches  lived  when  not  engaged  in  desolating  my  young 
life,  but,  alas!  here,  as  everywhere,  the  man  is  the  fa- 
vored party,  and  the  theatre  wardrobe  contains  only  mas- 
culine garments ;  the  women  must  provide  everything  for 
themselves.  Then,  too,  one  is  never  too  young  or  too 
insignificant  to  feel  an  injustice. 

I  recall,  very  distinctly,  having  to  go  on  for  Lady  Anne 
in  "  Richard  III.,"  with  a  rather  unimportant  star.  Now 
had  I  "  held  a  position,"  as  the  term  goes,  that  part 
would;  out  of  courtesy,  have  belonged  to  me  for  the  rest 
of  the  season,  unless  I  chose  to  offer  it  back  to  the  woman 


PLAYING  MANY   PARTS  121 

I  had  obliged;  but  being  only  a  ballet-girl  I  did  well 
enough  for  the  Lady  Anne  of  an  unimportant  star,  but 
when  a  more  popular  Richard  appeared  upon  the  scene, 
Lady  Anne  was  immediately  reclaimed,  and  I  traipsed 
again  behind  the  coffin,  and  with  the  rest  of  the  ballet 
was  witness  to  that  most  savage  fling  of  Shakespeare 
against  a  vain,  inconsequential  womanhood  as  personi- 
fied in  Lady  Anne,  who,  standing  by  her  coffined,  mur- 
dered dead,  eagerly  drinks  in  the  flattery  offered  by  the 
murderer's  self.  It  is  a  courtship  all  dagger-pierced  and 
reeking  with  innocent  blood  —  monstrous  and  revolting ! 
One  would  like  to  know  who  the  woman  was  whose  in- 
credible vanity  and  levity  so  worked  upon  the  master's 
mind  that  he  produced  this  tragic  caricature.  Who  was 
the  woman  who  inspired  great  Shakespeare's  one  un- 
natural scene?  Come,  antiquaries,  cherchez  la  femmc! 

I  suffered  most  when  I  had  to  play  some  lady  of  qual- 
ity, for  what,  in  heaven's  name,  had  I  to  dress  a  lady 
in?  Five  dollars  a  week  to  live  on,  to  dress  myself  on, 
and  to  provide  stage  wardrobe !  Many  a  bitter  tear  I 
shed.  And  then  there  was  the  surprise  of  the  stars,  when 
after  playing  an  important  part  one  night,  they  suddenly 
recognized  me  the  next  standing  in  the  crowd  of  peas- 
ants or  seated  at  Macbeth 's  disheartening  banquet. 

Their  comments  used  to  be  very  caustic  sometimes, 
and  they  almost,  without  exception,  advised  me  to  rebel, 
to  go  and  demand  freedom  from  the  ballet,  or  at  least 
salary  enough  to  dress  the  parts  given  me  to  play.  But 
those  long  years  of  childish  thraldom  had  left  their  mark 
—  I  could  not  assert  myself,  an  overwhelming  shame 
came  upon  me,  even  at  the  thought  of  asking  to  be  ad- 
vanced. So  I  went  on  playing  boys  and  second  old 
women,  singing  songs  when  forced  to  it,  going  on  for 
poor  leading  parts  even,  for  the  leading  lady  being  the 
manager's  wife  rarely  played  parts  with  women  stars,  and 
then  between  times  dropping  back  into  the  ballet  and 
standing  about  in  crowds  or  taking  part  in  a  village  dance. 

It  was  a  queer  position  and  no  mistake.     Many  stars 


\ 


122  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

had  grown  to  know  me,  and  often  on  Monday  morning 
he  or  she  would  come  over  to  our  group  and  shake  hands 
kindly,  to  my  great  pleasure.  One  morning,  while  we 
were  rehearsing  "  Lady  Audley's  Secret,"  Mrs.  Bowers, 
whom  I  greatly  admired,  came  over  to  me,  and  remarked : 
"  You  hard-hearted  little  wretch !  I've  been  watching 
you;  you  are  treating  that  boy  shamefully!  Don't  you 
know  Murdoch  is  a  gentleman  ?  " 

I  was  surprised,  and  rather  quickly  answered :  "  Well, 
have  I  treated  him  as  if  he  were  not  a  gentleman  ?  " 

She  was  called  just  then,  but  when  the  act  was  over 
she  came  to  me  again,  and  taking  my  hand  in  her  right, 
she  began  beating  it  up  and  down  upon  her  left:  "You 
are  not  vexed,  are  you  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Don't  be ;  I  only 
wonder  how  you  can  do  it,  and  you  are  so  young !  Why," 
she  sighed,  from  her  very  soul  it  seemed  to  me,  "  Why," 
she  went  on,  "  ever  since  I  was  fourteen  years  old  I  have 
been  loving  some  man  who  has  not  loved  me ! "  Tears 
rose  thickly  into  her  eyes.  "  I  am  always  laying  my  heart 
down  for  some  man  to  trample  on ! "  She  glanced 
toward  Mr.  McCollom  (he  who  was  six  feet  tall  and 
handsome),  a  little  smile  trembled  on  her  lips.  I  caught 
her  fingers  on  a  swift  impulse  and  squeezed  them,  she 
squeezed  back  answeringly;  we  understood  each  other, 
she  was  casting  her  heart  down  again,  unasked.  Her 
eyes  came  back  to  me.  "  Yours  is  the  best  way,  but  I'm 
too  old  to  learn  now,  I  shall  have  to  go  on  seeking  — 
always  seeking ! " 

"  And  finding,  surely  finding !  "  I  answered,  honestly, 
for  I  'could  not  imagine  anyone  resisting  her. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  she  said,  eagerly ;  then,  rather 
sadly,  she  added :  "  Still  it  would  be  nice  to  be  sought 
once,  instead  of  always  seeking." 

Poor  woman !  Charming  actress  as  she  was,  she  did 
not  exaggerate  in  declaring  she  was  always  casting  her 
heart  before  someone.  She  married  Mr.  McCollom,  and 
lived  with  him  in  adoring  affection  till  death  took  him. 

The  last  time  I  saw  her  she  was  my  guest  here  at  "  The 


MRS.   BOWERS  123 

Pines,"  and  as  I  fastened  a  great  hibiscus  flower  above 
her  ear,  in  Spanish  fashion,  she  remarked: 

"  How  little  you  have  changed  in  all  these  years !  I'll 
wager  your  heart  is  without  a  scar,  while  if  you  could 
only  see  mine,"  she  laughed,  "  it's  like  an  old  bit  of  tinware 
—  so  battered,  and  bent,  and  dented !  " 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEENTH 

Through  Devotion  to  my  Friend,  I  Jeopardize  my  Repu- 
tation —  I  Own  a  Baby  on  Shares  —  Miss  Western's 
Pathetic  Speech. 

I  HAD  at  that  time  a  friend  —  a  rare  possession 
that.  "  The  ideal  of  friendship,"  says  Madame 
Switchine,  "  is  to  feel  as  one  while  remaining  two," 
which  is  a  precise  description  of  the  condition  of  mind 
and  feeling  of  Mrs.  Mollie  Ogden  and  myself.  She  did 
not  act,  but  her  husband  did,  and  I  saw  her  every  night, 
nearly  every  morning,  and  when  work  permitted  we 
visited  one  another  in  the  afternoons.  There  was  but 
one  kind  of  cake  on  the  market  that  I  liked,  and  that 
cake,  with  coffee,  was  always  offered  for  my  refresh- 
ment when  I  was  her  guest.  When  she  was  mine  the 
festal  board  was  furnished  forth  with  green  tea,  of  which 
she  was  inordinately  fond,  and  oysters  stewed  in  their 
own  can  and  served  in  two  mugs ;  the  one  announcing, 
in  ostentatious  gold  letters,  that  I  was  "  a  good  girl," 
was  naturally  at  the  service  of  my  guest,  while  the  plain 
stone-china  affair,  from  the  toilet-table,  answered  my 
purposes.  With  what  happy  eagerness  we  prepared  for 
those  absurd  banquets,  which  we  heartily  enjoyed,  since 
we  were  boarders,  and  always  hungry  —  and  how  we 
talked!  Of  what?  Why,  good  heaven!  did  I  not  hold 
a  membership  in  the  library,  and  were  we  not  both  light- 
ning-quick readers?  Why,  we  had  the  whole  library 
to  talk  over ;  besides,  there  was  the  country  to  save !  and 
as  Mollie  didn't  really  know  one  party  from  the  other, 
she  felt  herself  particularly  fitted  for  the  task  of  settling 
public  questions. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  began  to  expect  another  visitor 

124 


A   PARTNERSHIP   BABY  125 

—  a  wee  visitor,  whom  we  hoped  would  remain  perma- 
nently, and,  goodness  mercy !  I  nearly  lost  my  reputation 
through  the  chambermaid  finding  in  my  work-basket 
some  half-embroidered,  tiny,  tiny  jackets.  Whereupon 
she  announced  to  the  servants,  in  full  assembly,  that  I 
had  too  soft  a  tongue,  and  was  deeper  than  the  sea,  but 
she  had  her  eyes  open,  and,  judging  from  what  she  found 
in  my  work-basket,  I  was  either  going  to  buy  a  monkey 
for  a  pet,  or  I  had  thrown  away  my  character  completely. 

Mrs.  Ogden  was  with  me  when  the  landlady,  stony- 
eyed  and  rattling  with  starch  and  rectitude,  came  to  in- 
quire into  the  contents  of  my  work-basket.  Her  call  was 
brief,  but  satisfactory,  and  shortly  after  her  exit  we  heard 
her,  at  the  top  of  her  lungs,  giving  me  a  clean  bill  of 
health  —  morally  speaking  —  and  denouncing  the  prying 
curiosity  of  the  maids.  But  we  had  had  a  scare,  and 
Mollie  implored  me  either  not  to  help  her  any  more  or 
to  lock  up  my  work-basket. 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  said,  "  I'll  rest  my  head  upon  the  cham- 
bermaid's breast  and  confide  all  my  intentions  to  her, 
then  surely  my  character  will  be  safe." 

However,  when  the  wee  stranger  arrived,  she  might 
well  have  wondered  whom  she  belonged  to.  At  all  events 
she  "  goo-gooed  and  gurgled,"  and  smiled  her  funny 
three-cornered  smile  at  me  as  readily  as  at  her  mother, 
and  my  friendly  rights  in  her  were  so  far  recognized  by 
others  that  questions  about  her  were  often  put  to  me  in 
her  mother's  very  presence,  who  laughingly  declared 
that  only  in  bed  with  the  light  out  did  she  feel  absolutely 
sure  that  the  baby  was  hers. 

Mollie  used  to  say  the  only  really  foolish  thing  she  ever 
caught  me  in  was  "  Protestantism."  It  was  a  great  grief 
to  us  all  that  I  could  not  be  godmother,  but  though  baby 
had  a  Protestant  father,  the  Church  flatly  refused  to  wink 
at  a  godmother  of  that  forsaken  race. 

When,  in  God's  good  time,  a  tiny  sister  came  to  baby, 
she  was  called  Clara,  but  my  friend  had  made  a  solemn 
vow  before  the  altar,  at  the  ripe  age  of  seven  years,  to 


126  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

name  her  first  child  Genevieve,  and  she,  to  quote  her  hus- 
band, "  being  a  Roman  Catholic  as  well  as  a  little  idiot," 
faithfully  kept  her  vow,  and  our  partnership's  baby  was 
loaded  up  with  a  name  that  each  year  proved  more  un- 
suitable, for  a  more  un-Genevieve-like  Genevieve  never 
lived.  All  of  which  goes  to  prove  how  unwise  it  is  to 
assume  family  cares  and  duties  before  the  arrival  of  the 
family. 

Miss  Lucille  Western  was  playing  an  engagement  in 
Cleveland  when  "  our  baby  "  was  a  few  months  old.  My 
friend  and  I  were  both  her  ardent  admirers.  I  don't 
know  why  it  has  arisen,  this  fashion  to  sneer  more  or  less 
openly  at  Miss  Western's  work.  If  a  woman  who  charms 
the  eye  can  also  thrill  you,  repel  you,  touch  you  to  tears, 
provoke  you  to  laughter  by  her  acting,  she  surely  merits 
the  term  "  great  actress."  Well,  now,  who  can  deny  that 
she  did  all  these  things?  Why  else  did  the  people  pack 
her  houses  season  after  season?  It  was  not  her  looks, 
for  if  the  perfect  and  unblemished  beauty  of  her  lovely 
sister  Helen  could  not  draw  a  big  house,  what  could  you 
expect  from  the  inspired  irregularity  of  Lucille's  face? 
How  alive  she  was !  She  was  not  quite  tall  enough  for 
the  amount  of  fine  firm  flesh  her  frame  then  carried  — 
but  she  laced,  and  she  was  grace  personified. 

She  was  a  born  actress ;  she  knew  nothing  else  in  all 
the  world.  There  is  a  certain  tang  of  wildness  in  all 
things  natural.  Dear  gods !  Think  what  the  wild  straw- 
berry loses  in  cultivation!  Half  the  fascination  of  the 
adorable  Jacqueminot  rose  comes  from  the  wild  scent  of 
thorn  and  earth  plainly  underlying  the  rose  attar  above. 
And  this  actress,  with  all  her  lack  of  polish,  knew  how 
to  interpret  a  woman's  heart,  even  if  she  missed  her  best 
manner.  For  in  all  she  did  there  was  just  a  touch  of 
extravagance  —  a  hint  of  lawless,  unrestrained  passion. 
There  was  something  tropical  about  her,  she  always  sug- 
gested the  scarlet  tanager,  the  jeweled  dragon-fly,  the 
pomegranate  flower,  or  the  scentless  splendor  of  our  wild 
marshmallow. 


MISS   LUCILLE  WESTERN          127 

In  "  Lucretia  Borgia  "  she  presented  the  most  perfect 
picture  of  opulent,  insolent  beauty  that  I  ever  saw,  while 
her  "  Leah,  the  Forsaken  "  was  absolutely  Hebraic ;  and 
in  the  first  scene,  where  she  was  pursued  and  brought  to 
bay  by  the  Christian  mob,  her  attitude,  as  she  silently 
eyed  her  foes,  her  face  filled  both  with  wild  terror  and 
fierce  contempt,  was  a  thing  to  thrill  any  audience,  and 
always  received  hearty  applause. 

So  far  as  looks  went,  she  was  seen  to  least  advantage 
in  her  greatest  money-maker,  "  East  Lynne."  Oh,  dear ! 
oh,  dear!  the  tears  that  were  shed  over  that  dreadful 
play,  and  how  many  I  contributed  myself!  I  would 
stand  looking  on  from  the  entrance,  after  my  short  part 
was  over,  and  when  she  cried  out :  "  Oh,  why  don't  I 
die !  My  God !  why  don't  I  die  ?  "  I  would  lay  my  head 
against  the  nearest  scene  and  simply  howl  like  a  broken- 
hearted young  puppy.  I  couldn't  help  it,  neither  could 
those  in  front  help  weeping  —  more  decorously  per- 
haps, because  they  were  older  and  had  their  good 
clothes  on. 

Now  this  brilliant  and  successful  actress  was  not  very 
happy  —  few  are,  for  one  reason  or  another  —  but  she 
worked  much  harder  than  most  women,  and  natu- 
rally liked  to  have  some  return  for  her  work;  there- 
fore she  must  have  found  it  depressing,  at  least,  when 
her  husband  formed  the  habit  of  counting  up  the  house 
by  eye  (he  could  come  to  within  $5  of  the  money  con- 
tents of  the  house  any  night  in  this  way),  and  then  going 
out  and  losing  the  full  amount  of  her  share  in  gambling. 
It  was  cruel,  and  it  was  but  one  of  the  degradations  put 
upon  her.  Lucille  did  not  know  how  to  bear  her  troubles. 
She  wept  and  used  herself  up.  Then,  to  get  through  her 
heavy  night's  work,  she  took  a  stimulant.  Oh,  poor  soul ! 
poor  soul !  though  the  audience  knew  nothing,  the  people 
about  her  knew  she  was  not  her  best  self ;  and  she  knew 
they  knew  it,  and  was  made  sore  ashamed  and  miserable. 
Her  husband,  on  one  occasion,  had  gambled  away  every 
cent  of  three  nights'  work.  On  the  fourth  she  had  had 


128  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

resource  to  a  stimulant,  and  on  the  fifth  she  was  cast 
down,  silent,  miserable,  and  humiliated. 

That  night  "  our  baby  "  came  to  the  theatre.  She  was 
one  of  those  aggressively  sociable  infants,  who  will  reach 
out  and  grasp  a  strange  whisker  rather  than  remain  un- 
noticed. She  had  pretty  little,  straight  features  and  small, 
bright  eyes  that  were  fairly  purply  blue.  I  had  her  — 
of  course  in  so  public  a  place  it  was  my  right  to  have 
her  —  she  was  over  my  shoulder.  I  was  standing  near 
the  star-room.  The  door  opened  and  next  moment  I 
heard  a  long,  low,  "  O-o-h !  "  and  then  again,  "  O-o-h ! 
a  —  baby,  and  awake!  and  the  peace  of  heaven  yet  in 
its  eyes ! " 

I  turned  my  head  to  look  at  Miss  Western,  and  her 
face  quickened  my  heart.  Her  glowing  eyes  were  fast- 
ened upon  "  baby,"  with  just  the  rapt,  uplifted  look  one 
sees  at  times  before  some  Roman  Catholic  altar.  It  was 
beautiful !  She  gave  a  little  start  and  exclaimed,  as  at  a 
wonder :  "  Its  hand !  oh,  its  tiny,  tiny  hand !  "  Just 
with  the  very  tip  of  her  forefinger  she  touched  it,  and 
"baby"  promptly  grasped  the  finger  and  gurgled  cordially. 
Her  face  flushed  red,  she  gave  a  gasp :  "  Good  God  !  "  she 
cried,  "  it's  touching  me,  me !  It  ist  see  —  see !  "  Sud- 
den tears  slipped  down  her  cheeks.  "  Blessed  God !  "  she 
cried,  "  if  you  had  but  sent  me  such  a  one,  all  would  have 
been  different!  I  could  never  bring  disgrace  or  shame 
on  a  precious  thing  like  this !  " 

As  she  raised  the  tiny  morsel  of  a  hand  to  her  lips 
the  prompter  sharply  called :  "  The  stage  waits,  Miss 
Western !  "  and  she  was  gone. 

Poor,  ill-guided,  unhappy  woman!  it  was  always  and 
only  the  stage  that  waited  Miss  Western. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEENTH 

Mr.  Charles  W.  Couldock  —  His  Daughter  Eliza  and  his 
Many  Peculiarities. 

THERE  was  one  star  who  came  to  us  every  sea- 
son with  the  regularity  and  certainty  of  the 
equinoctial  storm,  and  when  they  arrived  together, 
as  they  frequently  did,  we  all  felt  the  conjunction  to 
be  peculiarly  appropriate.  He  was  neither  young  nor 
good-looking,  yet  no  one  could  truthfully  assert  that  his 
engagements  were  lacking  in  interest  —  indeed,  some 
actors  found  him  lively  in  the  extreme.  Charles  W. 
Couldock  was  an  Englishman  by  birth,  and  had  come  to 
this  country  with  the  great  Cushman.  He  was  a  man 
of  unquestionable  integrity  —  honorable,  truthful,  warm- 
hearted; but  being  of  a  naturally  quick  and  irritable 
temper,  instead  of  trying  to  control  it,  he  yielded  himself 
up  to  every  impulse  of  vexation  or  annoyance,  while  with 
ever-growing  violence  he  made  mountains  out  of  mole- 
hills, and  when  he  had  just  cause  for  anger  he  burst  into 
paroxysms  of  rage,  even  of  ferocity,  that,  had  they  not 
been  half  unconscious  acting,  must  have  landed  him  in  a 
mad-house  out  of  consideration  for  the  safety  of  others ; 
while,  worst  of  all,  like  too  many  of  his  great  nation,  he 
was  profane  almost  beyond  belief ;  and  profanity,  always 
painfully  repellent  and  shocking,  is  doubly  so  when  it 
comes  from  the  lips  of  one  whose  silvering  hair  shows  his 
days  have  already  been  long  in  the  land  of  the  God  whom 
he  is  defying.  And  yet  when  Mr.  Couldock  ceased  to 
use  plain,  every-day  oaths,  and  brought  forth  some  home- 
made ones,  they  were  oaths  of  such  intricate  construction, 
such  grotesque  termination,  that  they  wrung  a  startled 
laugh  from  the  most  unwilling  lip. 

129 


130  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

In  personal  appearance  he  was  the  beau-ideal  wealthy 
farmer.  He  was  squarely,  solidly  built,  of  medium  height 
—  never  fat.  His  square,  deeply-lined,  even-furrowed 
face  was  clean  shaven.  His  head,  a  little  bald  on  top, 
had  a  thin  covering  of  curly  gray  hair,  which  he  wore 
a  trifle  long;  while  his  suit  of  black  cloth  —  always  a 
size  or  two  too  large  for  him  —  and  his  never-changing 
big  hat  of  black  felt  were  excuse  enough  for  any  man's 
asking  him  about  the  state  of  the  crops  —  which  they 
often  did,  and  were  generally  urgently  invited  to  go  to 
the  hottest  Hades  for  their  pains. 

On  his  brow  there  was  a  deep  and  permanent  scowl 
that  seemed  cut  there  to  the  very  bone.  Two  deep,  heavy 
lines  ran  from  the  sides  of  his  nose  to  the  corners  of  his 
lips,  where  they  suddenly  became  deeper  before  continu- 
ing down  toward  his  chin,  while  a  strong  cast  in  one  of 
his  steely-blue  eyes  gave  a  touch  of  malevolence  to  the 
severity  of  his  face. 

The  strong  point  of  his  acting  was  in  the  expression 
of  intense  emotion  —  particularly  grief  or  frenzied  rage. 
He  was  utterly  lacking  in  dignity,  courtliness,  or  subtlety. 
He  was  best  as  a  rustic,  and  he  was  the  only  creature  I 
ever  saw  who  could  "  snuffle  "  without  being  absurd  or 
offensive. 

Generally,  if  anything  went  wrong,  Mr.  Couldock's 
rage  broke  forth  on  the  instant,  but  he  had  been  known 
to  keep  a  rod  in  pickle  for  a  day  or  more,  as  in  the  case 
of  a  friend  of  mine  —  at  least  it  was  the  husband  of  my 
friend  Mollie.  He  had  played  Salanio  in  "  The  Merchant 
of  Venice,"  and  in  some  way  had  offended  the  star,  who 
cursed  him  sotto  voce  at  the  moment  of  the  offence,  and 
then  seemed  to  forget  all  about  the  matter.  Next  morn- 
ing, at  rehearsal,  nothing  was  said  till  its  close,  when  Mr. 
Couldock  quite  quietly  asked  my  friend  to  look  in  at  his 
dressing-room  that  evening  before  the  play  began. 

Poor  John  was  uneasy  all  the  afternoon,  still  he  drew 
some  comfort  from  the  calmness  of  Mr.  Couldock's  man- 
ner. Evening  came,  John  was  before  the  bar.  The  star 


MR.   COULDOCK'S   TEMPER         131 

seemed  particularly  gentle  —  he  removed  his  coat  leis- 
urely and  said : 

*  You  played  Salanio  last  night  ?  " 
'  Yes,  sir." 

'  And  your  name  is  —  er  ?  " 
'  Ogden,  sir,"  replied  John. 

'  Ah,  yes,  Ogden.  Well,  how  long  have  you  been  at 
it,  Ogden?" 

"  About  three  years,"  answered  the  now  confident  and 
composed  prisoner  at  the  bar. 

"  Three  years  ?  huh !  Well,  will  you  let  me  give  you 
a  bit  of  advice,  Ogden  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  sir,  I  shall  be  glad  to  listen  to  any  advice 
from  you,"  earnestly  protested  the  infatuated  one. 

"  Well,"  snapped  the  star,  rather  sharply,  "  I  want  you 
to  follow  it  as  well  as  to  listen  to  it.  Now  you  take  some 
money  —  you  have  some  money  saved,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir !  "  answered  John. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  turned  his  queer  eye  on  him,  he  took 
a  long,  full  breath,  "  well,  then,  you  just  get  some  of  that 
money,  and  you  go  to  a  hardware  store,"  his  rage  was 
rising  visibly,  "  and  you  buy  a  good  sharp  hatchet,  and 
then  I  want  you  to  take  it  home  and  chop  your  d — d  fool 
head  off !  "  and  ripping  off  his  vest  he  made  a  furious 
charge  upon  the  almost  paralyzed  Ogden,  clouting  him 
from  the  room,  while  roaring  like  a  bull. 

He  had  played  one  set  of  plays  so  long  he  had  lost  the 
power  to  study  quickly,  and  he  was  so  ill-advised  once 
as  to  attempt  a  new  part,  on  rather  short  notice.  The 
play  was  a  miserable  jumble  of  impossible  situations  and 
strained,  high-flown  language ;  and,  of  all  absurd  things, 
Mr.  Couldock  attempted  to  play  a  young  Irish  hero,  with 
a  love-scene  —  in  fact  he  was  supposed  to  represent  the 
young  Emmet.  Dear  heaven!  what  a  sight  he  was,  in 
those  buckskin  riding  breeches  (his  legs  were  not  beyond 
suspicion  as  to  their  straightness),  that  cutaway  green 
coat,  and  the  dinky  little  conical  hat,  looking  so  mali- 
ciously "  larky,"  perched  over  his  fiercest  eye.  He  forgot 


132  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

all  his  lines,  but  he  never  forgot  his  profanity,  and  that 
night  it  took  on  a  wild  originality  that  was  simply  con- 
vulsing. In  one  scene  he  had  to  promise  to  save  his  be- 
loved Ireland.  He  quite  forgot  the  speech,  and  being 
reminded  of  it  by  the  prompter,  he  roared  at  the  top  of 
his  voice :  "  I  don't  care !  what  the  devil's  Ireland  to 
me !  d — n  Ireland !  I  wish  it  and  the  man  that  wrote 
this  play  were  both  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  with  cock- 
eyed sharks  eatin'  'em !  "  Then  he  suddenly  pulled  out 
his  part  and  began  to  search  wildly  for  his  next  scene, 
that  he  might  try  to  recall  his  lines ;  at  this  he  continued 
till  he  was  called  to  go  upon  the  stage,  then  he  made  a 
rush,  and  in  a  moment  the  house  was  laughing. 

"  Oh,  dear !  what  was  it  ?  "  Everyone  ran  to  peep 
on  the  stage.  Mr.  Couldock  had  discovered  they  were 
laughing  at  him,  and  was  becoming  recklessly  furious. 
Mr.  Ellsler,  fearing  he  would  insult  the  people,  hastily 
rang  down  the  curtain.  Then  Mr.  Couldock,  as  Emmet, 
faced  round  to  us,  and  the  laughter  was  explained.  When 
he  was  reading  over  his  part  he  had  put  on  a  big  pair  of 
spectacles,  and  when  he  hurried  on  he  simply  pushed 
them  up  and  left  them  there.  A  young  lover  with  big, 
old-fashioned  spectacles  on  his  forehead  and  a  perky  lit- 
tle conical  hat  looking  down  on  them  was  certainly  an 
unusual  sight  and  an  amusing  one. 

One  of  Mr.  Couldock's  most  marked  characteristics 
was  the  amazingly  high  pitch  of  his  voice  in  speaking. 
Anyone  who  has  heard  two  men  trying  to  converse  across 
a  large  open  field  has  had  a  good  illustration  of  his  style 
of  intonation,  which  anger  raised  to  a  perfect  shriek. 
The  most  shocking  exhibition  of  rage  I  ever  saw  came 
from  him  during  a  performance  of  "  Louis  XI."  Annie 
and  I,  as  pages,  were  standing  each  side  of  the  throne, 
holding  large  red  cushions  against  our  stomachs.  My 
cushion  supported  a  big  gilded  key,  until,  in  my  fright, 
I  actually  shook  it  off,  for  when  Mr.  Couldock's  passion 
came  upon  him  on  the  stage  his  violence  created  sad 
havoc  in  the  memories  of  the  actors.  The  audience,  too, 


AN  ENRAGED   STAR  133 

could  hear  many  of  his  jibes  and  oaths,  and  Mr.  Ellsler 
was  very  angry  about  it,  for  in  spite  of  his  affection  for 
the  man,  he  drew  the  line  at  the  insulting  of  the  audi- 
ence; therefore,  when  the  curtain  fell,  Mr.  Ellsler  said: 
"  Charley,  this  won't  do !  you  must  control  yourself  in 
the  presence  of  the  public !  " 

The  interference  seemed  to  drive  him  mad.  A  volley 
of  oaths,  inconceivably  blasphemous,  came  from  his  lips, 
and  then,  with  a  bound,  he  seized  the  manuscript  (it  was 
not  a  published  play  then,  and  the  manuscript  was  valu- 
able) and  tore  it  right  down  the  centre.  Mr.  Ellsler  and 
the  prompter  caught  his  right  hand,  trying  to  save  the 
play,  but  while  they  held  that  he  lifted  the  rest  of  the 
manuscript  and  tore  it  to  pieces  with  his  teeth,  growling 
and  snarling  like  a  savage  animal.  Then  he  broke  away 
and  rushed  frantically  up-stairs  to  Mr.  Ellsler's  dressing- 
room,  where  he  locked  himself  in.  When  it  was  time  to 
call  the  next  act  he  gave  no  answer  to  their  knocking, 
though  he  could  be  heard  swearing  and  raving  within. 
Mr.  Ellsler  finally  burst  open  the  door,  and  there  stood 
Louis  XL  in  his  under-garments,  and  his  clothing  — 
where?  It  was  a  tiny  room,  nevertheless  no  velvet  cos- 
tume could  be  found.  The  window,  a  long  French  one, 
was  nailed  up  for  winter  —  the  clothes  had  not  been 
thrown  out.  There  was  no  stove  yet,  they  had  not  been 
burned ;  where  then  were  they  ?  Another  overture  was 
played?  Some  of  Mr.  Ellsler's  clothes  were  hastily 
brought  —  a  nondescript  covering  for  his  royal  naked- 
ness was  found,  and  he  went  on  to  finish  the  perform- 
ance somehow,  while  the  prompter  guessed  at  the  ring- 
ing down  of  the  curtain,  for  there  was  no  manuscript  to 
guide  him. 

Truly  it  had  been  a  most  humiliating  spectacle.  Many 
weeks  later,  when  stoves  were  going  up,  the  men  dis- 
covered that  someone  had  torn  away  the  tin  protector 
from  the  stove-pipe  hole  in  Mr.  Ellsler's  room,  and  when 
they  were  replacing  it  they  found,  crammed  tightly  into 
a  narrow  space  between  the  lath  and  plastering  of  the 


134  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

two  rooms,  the  velvet  garments  of  Louis  XL,  even  to 
the  cap  with  the  leaden  images.  How  he  had  discovered 
the  place  no  one  knows,  and  when  his  rage  had  passed 
he  could  not  remember  what  he  had  done,  but  he  could 
play  Louis  no  more  that  season. 

We  were  always  pleased  when  Mr.  Couldock  was  ac- 
companied by  his  daughter.  Eliza  Couldock,  bearing  an 
absurdly  marked  resemblance  to  her  father,  of  course 
could  not  be  pretty.  The  thin,  curly  hair,  the  fixed  frown, 
the  deep  lines  of  nose  and  mouth,  the  square,  flat  figure, 
all  made  of  her  a  slightly  softened  replica  of  the  old  gen- 
tleman. Her  teeth  were  pretty,  though,  and  her  hazel 
eyes  were  very  brilliant.  She  was  well  read,  clever,  and 
witty,  ancl  her  affectionate  devotion  to  her  father  knew 
no  bounds ;  yet  as  she  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous, 
no  eccentricity,  no  grotcsqucric  of  his  escaped  her  laugh- 
ing, hawk-keen  eye,  and  sometimes  when  talking  to  old 
friends,  like  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ellsler,  she  would  tell  tales 
of  "  poor  pa  "  that  were  exceedingly  funny. 

They  went  to  California  —  a  great  undertaking  then, 
as  the  Pacific  Railroad  was  not  completed,  and  they  were 
most  unsuccessful  during  their  entire  stay  here.  Eliza 
told  one  day  of  how  a  certain  school-principal  in  'Frisco 
had  met  her  father  after  a  performance  to  a  miserable 
house,  and  with  frightful  bad  taste  had  asked  Mr.  Coul- 
dock how  he  accounted  for  the  failure  of  his  engagement, 
and  that  gentleman  snarled  out :  "  I  don't  try  to  account 
for  it  at  all !  I  leave  that  work  for  the  people  who  ask  fool 
questions.  If  I  only  have  one  d — n  cent  in  my  pocket 
I  don't  try  to  account  for  not  having  another  d — n  cent 
to  rub  against  it !  "  And  Eliza  added,  in  pained  tones : 
"  that  principal  had  meant  to  ask  '  poor  pa '  to  come  and 
speak  to  the  dear  little  boys  in  his  school,  but  after  that 
he  didn't  —  wasn't  it  odd  ?  " 

As  Mr.  Couldock  was  heard  approaching  that  morn- 
ing, his  daughter  quickly  whispered  to  Mrs.  Ellsler: 
"Ask  pa  how  he  liked  California?" 

And  after  "  good-mornings  "  were  exchanged,  the  ques- 


SKILFUL   TRUNK   UNPACKING     135 

tion  was  put,  and  incidentally  the  red  rag  brought  the 
mad  bull  into  action. 

"  I  wouldn't  give  a  d — n  for  the  whole  d — d  State!  " 
roared  Mr.  Couldock,  while  his  daughter  pushed  his  hair 
behind  his  ears,  and  mildly  said :  "  Pa's  always  so  em- 
phatic about  California." 

"  Yes !  "  shouted  the  old  man,  "  and  so  would  you  be 
if  you  wore  breeches  and  dared  to  speak  the  truth !  You 
see,"  he  went  on,  "  no  one  ever  gave  me  even  a  hint,  and  it 
was  just  my  cursed  luck  to  go  overland,  risking  my  own 
d — n  skin  and  Eliza's  too,  and  it  seems  that  those  God- 
forsaken duffers  look  upon  anyone  coming  to  them  by 
the  overland  route  as  a  sort  of  outcast  tramp.  In  fact, 
that's  entering  by  the  back-kitchen  door  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. You  ought  to  go  by  sea,  and  come  in  at  the  front 
door  of  their  blasted,  stuck-up  little  city  if  you're  to  put 
any  of  their  money  in  your  purse  or  be  allowed  to  keep 
any  of  your  own." 

One  morning  we  girls  were  boasting  among  ourselves 
of  our  abilities  as  packers.  Hattie,  my  room-mate, 
thought  she  could  pack  a  trunk  the  quickest,  while  I 
claimed  I  could  pack  one  with  the  least  injury  to  the 
contents.  Miss  Couldock,  hearing  us,  exclaimed,  laugh- 
ingly :  "  Oh,  girls,  poor  pa  could  give  you  all  points  at 
that  work,  while  his  manner  of  unpacking  is  so  original, 
so  swift,  and  so  thorough,  I  think  I  should  explain  it  to 
you.  First,  I  must  tell  you,  that  that  slight  bow  to  pa's 
legs  is  an  annoyance  to  him  on  every  occasion  of  life, 
save  that  of  unpacking  his  trunks,  then  it  is  of  great  con- 
venience. You  see,  the  trunks  are  brought  up  and 
dumped  in  the  room.  They  don't  have  any  locks,  be- 
cause '  poor  pa,'  always  losing  the  keys,  has  to  kick  the 
locks  off  during  the  first  week  that  he  owns  them.  Next 
they  are  unstrapped1  and  opened,  then  pa  yanks  off  the 
top  spread  from  the  bed  and  lays  it  open  on  the  middle 
of  the  floor  ;  then  he  takes  his  place  before  the  first  trunk, 
straddles  his  feet  well  apart  (see,  now,  how  useful  that 
bow  becomes),  and  fires  every  single  garment  the  trunk 


136  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

contains  between  his  legs  and  on  to  the  quilt.  Having 
emptied  the  trunks  with  lightning  swiftness,  he  claps 
down  their  covers  for  the  rest  of  the  week.  Whenever 
he  wants  anything  for  the  theatre,  he  straddles  the  pile 
on  the  quilt,  and  paws  it  wildly,  but  rapidly  over,  pull- 
ing out  a  shoulder-cape  here,  a  doublet  yonder,  one  boot 
from  the  top  and  its  mate  from  the  bottom  —  all  these 
he  pitches  into  the  theatre-basket,  and  is  happy  for  that 
day.  When  the  week  is  over,  pa  dumps  into  the  nearest 
trunk  all  it  will  hold,  and  what's  left  over  is  pitched  en 
masse  into  the  next  one.  If  there  is  any  difficulty  in 
closing  the  trunks  he  don't  waste  time  in  trying  to  re- 
arrange the  things.  There  is  such  beautiful  simplicity 
in  all  pa's  actions,  he  just  gets  up  and  walks  —  well, 
perhaps  stamps  a  little  on  the  contents,  until  the  lid 
closes  quite  nicely,  for  he  is  a  very  quick  packer,  is  pa, 
though  it's  just  possible  that  his  method  in  some  degree 
may  explain  his  generally  rumpled  appearance  on  the 
stage.  What  should  you  think  about  it,  girls  ?  " 

The  old  gentleman  was  always  very  kind  to  me  and 
had  the  oddest  pet  name  for  me  I  ever  heard.  He  used 
to  hail  me  with :  "  Where's  my  crummie  girl  ?  Well, 
Crummy,  how  are  you  ?  " 

In  answer  to  my  amazed  look,  he  explained  one  day 
that  it  was  a  Yorkshire  term,  and  meant  "  plump  or 
round  faced."  The  only  time  he  ever  cursed  me  was 
when  he  gave  me  the  cue  in  the  wrong  place,  as  he 
openly  admitted,  and  I  went  on  too  soon  in  consequence. 
Aside,  he  swore  so  the  air  seemed  blue  —  my  legs  shook 
under  me.  I  did  not  know  whether  to  speak  or  not.  He 
rose,  and  putting  his  arm  about  me,  he  led  me  off  the 
stage  (I  was  playing  his  daughter),  and  as  we  crossed 
the  stage,  this  is  what  he  said  —  the  words  in  paren- 
theses being  asides  to  me,  the  other  words  being  aloud 
for  the  audience: 

"  (What  in  h— 11!)  My  little  one!  (you  double  d— n 
fool!)  My  bird,  what  brings  you  here?  (Yes,  what  the 
blankety,  blankety,  blanknation  does  bring  you  here, 


AN   APPEAL  FOR  AID  137 

crummie  girl?)  Get  back  to  your  nest,  dearie!  (and 
stay  there,  d — n  you!)"  as  he  gently  pushed  me  off  the 
stage.  Next  day  when  the  prompter  showed  him  his 
error  he  admitted  it  at  once. 

He  knew  much  sorrow  and  trouble,  and  before  that 
last  long  streak  of  good  fortune  came  to  him,  in  New 
York,  in  "  Hazel  Kirke,"  he  knew  a  time  of  bitter  pov- 
erty. Eliza  had  died  —  a  sweet  and  noble  woman  —  and 
the  loss  was  terrible  to  him.  I  was  just  winning  success 
in  the  East  when  I  was  dumfounded  one  day  at  seeing 
Mr.  Couldock  standing,  bowed  and  broken,  before  me, 
asking  me  for  help. 

A  star  —  dear  God!  could  such  things  happen  to  a 
star  ?  I  was  so  hurt  for  him,  for  his  broken  pride.  When 
I  could  speak,  I  simply  told  him  my  salary,  and  that  two 
(my  mother  and  myself)  were  trying  to  live  on  it. 
"  Oh !  "  he  cried,  "  crummie  girl,  why  don't  you  demand 
your  rights;  your  name  is  on  everyone's  lips,  yet  you 
are  hungry !  Shall  I  speak  for  you  ?  " 

Poor  old  gentleman,  I  could  not  let  him  go  empty 
away.  I  took  one-half  of  my  rent-money  and  handed  it 
to  him.  I  dared  not  ask  my  landlady  to  favor  me  fur- 
ther than  that.  His  face  lighted  up  radiantly  —  it  might 
have  been  hundreds  from  his  look.  "  Dearie !  "  he  said, 
"  I'll  pay  this  back  to  the  penny.  You  can  ill  spare  it,  I 
see  that,  crummie  girl,  but,  oh,  my  lass,  it's  worse  to 
see  another  hungry  than  it  is  to  hunger  yourself.  I'll 
pay  it  back !  "  His  eyes  filled,  he  paused  long,  then  he 
said,  pathetically :  "  Some  time,  crummie  girl,  some 
time !  " 

My  landlady  granted  me  grace.  Months  passed  away 
—  many  of  them  —  waves  went  over  me  sometimes,  but 
they  receded  before  my  breath  was  quite  gone.  Things 
were  bettering  a  little,  and  then  one  day,  when  I  came 
home  from  work,  a  man  had  called  in  my  absence  —  an 
old  man,  who  had  left  this  little  packet,  and,  oh !  he  had 
been  so  anxious  for  its  safety ! 

I  opened  it  to  find  $25,  all  in  bills  of  ones  and  twos. 


138  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

Such  a  pathetic  story  those  small  bills  told  —  they  were 
for  the  crummie  girl,  "  With  the  thanks  of  the  obliged, 
Charles  W.  Couldock." 

He  had  kept  his  word;  he  was  the  only  man  in  this 
profession  who  ever  repaid  me  one  dollar  of  borrowed 
money.  Mr.  Couldock  was  like  some  late-ripening  fruit 
that  requires  a  touch  of  frost  for  its  sweetening.  In  his 
old  age  he  mellowed,  he  became  chaste  of  speech,  his 
acting  of  strong,  lovable  old  men  was  admirable.  He  was 
honored  by  his  profession  in  life  and  honestly  mourned 
in  death  —  he  would  not  have  asked  more. 


CHAPTER  NINETEENTH 

I  Come  to  a  Turning-Point  in  my  Dramatic  Life — I  play 
my  First  Crying  Part  with  Miss  Sallie  St.  Clair. 

WE  were  in  Columbus ; things  were  moving  along 
smoothly  and  quietly,  when  suddenly  that  inci- 
dent occurred  which  had  the  power  to  change 
completely  my  dramatic  prospects,  while  at  the  same  time 
it  convinced  the  people  about  me,  in  theatrical  parlance, 
my  head  was  "  well  screwed  on,"  meaning  it  was  not  to 
be  turned  by  praise. 

Miss  Sallie  St.  Clair  was  the  star  of  the  week,  and  she 
was  billed  to  appear  on  Friday  and  Saturday  nights  in 
an  adaptation  of  "  La  Maison  Rouge."  I  am  not  cer- 
tain as  to  the  title  she  gave  it,  but  I  think  it  was  "  The 
Lone  House  on  the  Bridge."  She  was  to  play  the  dual 
characters  —  a  count  and  a  gypsy  boy.  The  leading 
female  part  Mrs.  Ellsler  declined,  because  she  would  not 
play  second  to  a  woman.  The  young  lady  who  had  been 
engaged  for  the  juvenile  business  (which  comes  between 
leading  parts  and  walking  ladies)  had  a  very  poor  study, 
and  tearfully  declared  she  simply  could  not  study  the  part 
in  time  —  "  No  —  no !  she  co  —  co  —  could  not,  so  now !  " 
There,  then,  was  Blanche's  chance.  The  part  was  sen- 
timental, tearful,  and  declamatory  at  the  last,  a  good 
part  —  indeed,  what  is  vulgarly  known  to-day  as  a  "  fat  " 
part,  "  fat "  meaning  lines  sure  to  provoke  applause. 

Mrs.  Bradshaw,  who  was  herself  ever  ready  to  oblige 
her  manager,  could  not  serve  him  in  this  instance,  as  the 
part  was  that  of  a  very  young  heroine,  but  she  gladly 
offered  her  daughter's  services  in  the  emergency.  So 
sending  for  her  to  come  to  the  theatre,  the  mother  awaited 
her  arrival.  She  was  very  ambitious  for  Blanche,  who 

139 


140  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

had  absolutely  no  ambition  for  herself,  outside  of  music, 
and  here  was  the  double  opportunity  of  playing  a  lead- 
ing part,  next  to  the  star,  and  of  obliging  the  manager 
just  at  the  time  when  contracts  for  the  next  season  were 
in  order  of  consideration.  No  girl  could  help  grasping 
at  it  eagerly,  and  while  Blanche  studied  the  part,  she, 
the  mother,  would  baste  up  some  breadths  of  satin  she 
had  by  her  into  a  court  dress.  As  she  thus  happily 
planned  it  all  Blanche  sauntered  in  to  inform  her  mother 
and  her  manager  that  she  would  not  do  the  part.  Would 
not,  mind  you ;  she  did  not  condescend  to  claim  she  could 
not.  Poor  Mrs.  Bradshaw  drew  her  heavy  veil  over  her 
face  with  a  shaking  hand  and  moved  silently  away,  only 
waiting  to  reach  the  friendly  privacy  of  her  own  room 
before  yielding  to  the  tears  caused  by  this  cruel  indiffer- 
ence to  her  wishes  and  to  their  mutual  welfare. 

Mr.  Ellsler  then  tried,  in  vain,  to  induce  Blanche  to 
undertake  the  part.  He  tried  to  bribe  her,  promising 
certain  gifts.  He  tried  to  arouse  her  pride  —  he  abso- 
lutely commanded  her  to  take  the  part. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  if  you  like,"  she  answered,  "  but  I'll 
spoil  the  play  if  I  do,  you  know !  "  And  indeed  he  did 
"  know  "  what  she  was  capable  of  in  the  line  of  mischief ; 
and,  knowing,  gave  her  up  in  angry  despair.  There  was 
then  but  one  chance  left  for  the  production  of  the  play, 
to  give  the  part  to  one  of  the  ballet-girls. 

And  Mr.  Ellsler,  who  felt  a  strong  friendship  for  the 
brave,  hard-working,  much-enduring  Miss  St.  Clair  and 
her  devoted  if  eccentric  husband,  said,  gently :  "  I'm 
sorry,  Sallie,  but  it's  no  fault  of  mine ;  you  know  I  can't 
give  memories  to  these  two  women,  who  say  they  can't 
study  the  part.  The  girl  I  want  to  offer  it  to  now  will 
speak  the  words  perfectly  to  the  last  letter,  and  that's  all 
we  can  expect  of  her,  but  that's  better  than  changing 
the  bill." 

Then  I  was  called.  I  adored  Miss  St.  Clair,  as  every- 
one else  did.  I  heard,  I  saw  the  long  part,  but  instead 
of  the  instant  smiling  assent  Mr.  Ellsler  expected,  I 


MY   FIRST   CRYING   PART         141 

shook  my  head  silently.  Miss  St.  Clair  groaned,  Mr. 
Barras  snuffled  loudly,  and  stammered :  "  W  —  what  did 
you  expect,  if  the  others  can't  study  it,  how  can  she?  " 

"  Oh/'  I  answered,  "  I  can  study  the  lines,  Mr.  Bar- 
ras, but,"  big  tears  came  into  my  eyes,  I  was  so  sorry  to 
disappoint  the  lovely  blond  star,  "  it's  —  it's  a  crying 
part  —  a  great  lady  and  a  crying  part !  I  —  I  —  oh,  if 
you  please,  I  can't  cry.  I  can  laugh  and  dance  and  sing 
and  scold,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  cry ;  and  look  here," 
I  caught  up  the  part  and  fluttered  over  the  leaves  and 
pointed  to  the  oft-repeated  word  "  weeps  —  weeps,"  "  and, 
Miss  St.  Clair,"  I  excitedly  finished,  "  I  can't  weep,  and 
I  won't  have  a  stitch  of  clothes  for  her  back  either !  " 

All  three  hearers  burst  out  laughing.  Miss  St.  Clair 
was  in  radiant  good-humor  in  an  instant.  She  dried  my 
eyes,  and  said :  "  Child,  if  you  really  can  study  that  long 
part,  and  just  walk  through  it  after  only  one  rehearsal, 
you  will  be  a  very  clever  little  girl.  You  need  not  try 
to  act,  just  give  me  the  lines  and  hold  a  handkerchief  to 
your  eyes  when  tears  are  called  for.  You  shall  have  one 
of  my  prettiest  dresses  for  the  court  scene,  and  I  guess 
you  have  a  white  muslin  of  your  own  for  the  garden 
scene,  have  not  you  ?  " 

I  had,  yes,  and  so  I  went  home,  heavy-hearted,  to  un- 
dertake the  study  of  my  first  crying  part. 

Good  heavens!  In  spite  of  this  memory,  I  catch  my- 
self wondering  was  there  ever  a  first  one  —  did  I  ever 
do  anything  else.  For  it  seems  to  me  I  have  cried  steadily 
through  all  the  years  of  my  dramatic  life.  Tears  gentle, 
regretful;  tears  petulant,  fretful;  tears  stormy,  pas- 
sionate; tears  slow,  despairing;  with  a  light  patter,  now 
and  then,  of  my  own  particular  brand,  kept  for  the  ex- 
pression of  my  own  personal  troubles  —  very  bitter, 
briny  tears  they  are,  and  I  find  that  a  very  few  answer 
my  purpose  nicely. 

Miss  St.  Clair,  who  was  tall  as  well  as  fair,  had  meas- 
ured the  length  of  my  skirt  in  front,  so  that  she  might 
have  one  of  her  dresses  shortened  for  me  during  the 


142  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

afternoon,  thus  leaving  me  all  the  time  possible  for  study. 
After  I  had  learned  the  words  by  heart,  I  began  to  study 
out  the  character.  It  was  an  excellent  acting  part,  very 
sweet  and  tenderly  pathetic  in  the  first  act,  very  pas- 
sionate and  fierce  in  the  second,  and  the  better  I  under- 
stood the  requirements  of  the  part,  the  greater  became 
my  terror  of  it.  My  room-mate  tried  to  comfort  me. 
"  Think,"  she  cried,  "  of  wearing  one  of  Miss  St.  Clair's 
own  dresses!  I'll  wager  it  will  be  an  awful  nice  one, 
too,  since  you  are  obliging  her,  and  she  is  always  kind, 
anyway." 

But  that  leaden  weight  at  my  heart  was  too  great  for 
gratified  vanity  to  lift.  "  Bother  the  tears,"  she  added ; 
"  I  heard  Mr.  Barras  say  the  tears  of  all  actresses  were 
in  their  handkerchiefs." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  heard  him,  too,"  I  answered,  "  but  he  was 
just  talking  for  effect.  There  must  be  something  else, 
something  more.  You  can't  move  anyone's  heart  by 
showing  a  handkerchief." 

"  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  a  bit  impatiently,  "  what  do 
you  want  to  do?  You  don't  expect  to  shed  real  tears, 
do  you  ?  " 

"  N-n-no !  "  I  hesitated,  "  not  exactly  that,  but  there's 
a  tone  —  a  —  Hattie,  last  Wednesday,  when  you  quar- 
relled with  young  Fleming  —  I  was  not  present,  you 
know  —  but  that  night,  a  half-hour  after  our  light  was 
out,  you  spoke  to  me  in  the  darkness,  and  I  instantly 
asked  you  why  you  were  crying  and  if  you  had  been 
quarrelling,  though  you  had  not  even  reached  the  sobbing 
stage  yet.  Now  how  did  I  know  you  were  crying?  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  anyway  I  had  no  handkerchief,"  she 
laughed ;  "  you  heard  it  maybe  in  my  voice." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  eagerly,  "  that  was  it.  That  curi- 
ous veiling  of  the  voice.  Oh,  Hattie,  if  I  could  only  get 
that  tone,  but  I  can't,  I've  tried  and  tried !  " 

"  Why,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you've  got  it  now  —  this  very 
moment ! " 

"  Yes,"  I  broke  in  impatiently,  and  turning  to  her  a 


STAGE   FRIGHTENED  143 

pair  of  reproachful,  tear-filled  eyes,  "yes,  but  why?  be- 
cause I'm  really  crying,  with  the  worry  and  the  disap- 
pointment, and,  oh,  Hattie,  the  fright !  " 

And  the  landlady,  a  person  who  always  lost  one  shoe 
when  coming  up-stairs,  announced  dinner,  and  I  shud- 
dered and  turned  my  face  away.  Hattie  went  down, 
however,  and  bringing  all  her  blandishments  to  bear  upon 
the  head  of  the  establishment,  secured  for  me  a  cup  of 
coffee  —  that  being  my  staff  in  all  times  of  trouble  or  of 
need,  and  then  we  were  off  to  the  theatre,  Hattie  kindly 
keeping  at  my  side  for  companionship  or  help,  as  need 
might  be. 

I  did  not  appear  in  the  first  act,  so  I  had  plenty  of  time 
to  receive  my  borrowed  finery  —  to  try  it  on,  and  then 
to  dress  in  my  own  white  muslin,  ready  for  my  first  at- 
tempt at  a  crying  part.  It  was  a  moonlit  scene.  Miss 
St.  Clair,  tall,  slender,  elegant,  looked  the  young  French 
gallant  to  the  life  in  her  black  velvet  court  dress.  I  had 
to  enter  down  some  steps  from  a  great  stone  doorway. 
I  stood,  ready  to  go  on.  I  wore  a  mantilla  with  my  mus- 
lin. I  held  a  closed  fan  in  my  hand.  My  heart  seemed 
to  suffocate  me  —  I  thought,  stupidly,  "  Why  don't  I 
pray  ?  "  but  I  could  not  think  of  a  single  word.  I  heard 
the  faint  music  that  preceded  my  entrance  —  a  mad  panic 
seized  me.  I  turned  and  dashed  toward  the  street-door. 
Mr.  Ellsler,  who  had  just  made  his  exit,  caught  me  by 
the  skirts.  "  Are  you  mad,  girl  ?  "  he  cried ;  "  go  back 
—  quick  —  quick !  I  tell  you  —  there's  your  cue !  " 

Next  moment,  tremulous  but  smiling,  I  was  descend- 
ing the  steps  to  meet  the  counterfeit  lover  awaiting  me. 
My  head  was  on  his  breast  and  my  arm  stealing  slowly 
about  his  neck  before  I  knew  that  the  closed  fan  in  my 
hand  was  crushed  into  fragments  and  marks  of  blood 
showing  between  my  clinched  fingers.  My  first  lines 
were  simply  recited,  without  meaning,  then  the  tender 
words  and  courtly  manners  aroused  my  imagination. 
The  glamour  of  the  stage  was  upon  me.  The  frightened 
actress  ceased  to  exist  —  I  was  the  Spanish  girl  whose 


144  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

long-mourned  lover  had  returned  to  her;  and  there  was 
something  lacking  in  the  greeting,  some  tone  of  the  voice, 
some  glance  of  the  eye  seemed  strange,  alien.  There 
was  more  of  ardor,  less  of  tenderness  than  before.  My 
lips  trembled ;  suddenly  I  heard  the  veiled,  pathetic  tone 
I  had  all  day  striven  for  in  vain,  and  curiously  enough 
it  never  struck  me  that  it  was  my  voice  —  no !  it  was 
the  Spanish  girl  who  spoke.  My  heart  leaped  up  in  my 
throat  with  a  great  pity,  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes,  fell 
upon  my  cheeks.  There  was  applause  —  of  course,  was 
not  Miss  St.  Clair  there?  Suspicion  arose  in  my  mind 
—  grew.  I  bethought  me  of  the  saving  of  my  life  on 
that  stolen  day  passed  in  the  forest  long  ago.  I  took  my 
lover's  hand  and  with  pretty  wiles  drew  him  into  the 
moonlight.  Then  swiftly  stripping  up  the  lace  ruffles, 
showed  his  arm  smooth  and  unblemished  by  any  scar, 
and  with  the  cry :  "  You  are  not  Pascal  de  la  Garde ! " 
stood  horror-stricken. 

The  moment  the  curtain  fell  Miss  St.  Clair  sprang  to 
me,  and  taking  my  face  between  her  hands,  she  cried: 
"  You  would  move  a  heart  of  stone !  "  She  wiped  her 
eyes,  and  turning  to  her  husband,  said :  "  Good  God ! 
she's  a  marvel !  " 

"  No,  no !  "  he  snuffled,  "  not  yet,  Sallie ;  but  she's  a 
marvel  in  embryo !  "  He  patted  me  on  the  shoulder. 
"  You  have  a  fortune  somewhere  between  your  throat 
and  your  eyes,  my  girl  —  you  have,  indeed !  " 

And  then  I  rushed  to  don  my  borrowed  robes  for  the 
next  act,  and  stared  stupidly  when  Hattie  said :  "  What 
lovely  applause  you  got,  Clara,  and  you  so  frightened ; 
you  shook  all  over  when  you  went  on,  we  could  see  you." 

But  I  was  too  excited  over  what  was  yet  to  be  done 
really  to  comprehend  her  words.  When  I  saw  myself 
in  the  glass  I  was  delighted.  The  open  robe  of  pale  blue 
satin,  brocaded  with  silver,  was  lifted  at  the  sides  with 
big  bunches  of  blush  and  deep-pink  roses  over  a  white 
satin  petticoat.  I  wore  a  high  Spanish  comb,  a  white 
mantilla,  a  pink  rose  over  the  ear,  after  the  national 


MAKING   A   HIT  145 

fashion,  and  a  great  cluster  of  roses  at  my  breast,  and 
for  the  first  time  I  felt  the  subtle  joy  that  emanates  from 
beautiful  and  becoming  garments.  The  fine  softness  of 
the  rich  fabric  was  pleasant  to  my  touch  —  its  silken  rus- 
tle was  music  to  my  ear.  Miss  St.  Clair  had  lent  me  of 
her  best,  and  as  I  saw  it  all  reflected  there,  I  thought 
how  easy  it  must  be  for  the  rich  to  be  good  and  happy, 
never  dreaming  that  the  wealthy,  who  to  escape  ennui 
and  absolute  idleness  sometimes  did  wrong  simply  be- 
cause there  was  nothing  else  to  do,  might  think  in  turn, 
ah!  how  easy  it  must  be  for  the  poor  to  be  good  and 
happy. 

But  the  overture  ended  abruptly.  I  gathered  up  my 
precious  draperies  and  ran  to  the  entrance  to  be  ready 
for  my  cue.  The  first  speeches  were  cold,  haughty,  and 
satirical.  The  gypsy  who  was  personating  my  dead  lover 
had  deceived  everyone  else,  even  the  half-blind  old  mother 
had  accepted  him  as  her  son,  though  declaring  him  greatly 
changed  in  temper  and  in  manner.  But  I,  the  sweetheart, 
was  not  convinced,  and  ignoring  the  advice  of  the  high- 
est at  the  court,  was  fighting  the  adventurer  with  the 
courage  of  despair. 

As  the  scene  went  on,  the  stage  hands  (carpenters,  gas- 
men, scene-shifters,  etc.)  began  to  gather  in  the  en- 
trances, always  a  sign  of  something  unusual  going  on. 
I  saw  them  —  an  ugly  thought  sprang  up  in  my  mind. 
Ah,  yes,  they  are  there  waiting  to  see  the  ballet-girl  fail 
in  a  leading  part!  An  unworthy  suspicion,  I  am  sure, 
but  it  acted  as  a  spur  would  have  done  upon  an  already 
excited  horse,  and  with  the  same  result,  loss  of  self- 
control. 

In  the  denunciation  of  the  adventurer  as  a  murderer 
and  a  personator  of  his  own  victim  my  passion  rose  to  a 
perfect  fury.  I  swept  the  stage,  storming,  raging,  fear- 
ing nothing  under  heaven  but  the  possible  escape  of  the 
wretch  I  hated!  Vaguely  I  noted  the  manager  reaching 
far  over  a  balcony  to  see  me  —  I  didn't  care  even  for  the 
manager.  The  audience  burst  into  tremendous  applause ; 


146  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

I  didn't  care  for  that  either,  I  only  wanted  to  see  a  rapier 
through  the  heart  of  the  pale,  sneering  man  before  me. 
It  was  momentary  madness.  People  were  startled  —  the 
star  twice  forgot  her  lines.  It  was  not  correct,  it  was 
not  artistic  work.  She,  the  part,  was  a  great  lady,  and 
even  her  passion  should  have  been  partially  restrained; 
but  I,  who  played  her,  a  ballet-girl,  earning  $5  a  week, 
what  could  you  expect,  pray,  for  the  price?  Certainly 
not  polish  or  refinement.  But  the  genuine  feeling,  the 
absolute  sincerity,  and  the  crude  power  lavished  upon 
the  scene  delighted  the  audience  and  created  a  very  real 
sensation. 

The  curtain  fell.  Miss  St.  Clair  took  me  into  her  kind 
arms  and,  without  a  word,  kissed  me  heartily.  The  ap- 
plause went  on  and  on.  She  caught  my  hand  and  said, 
"  Come !  "  As  she  led  me  to  the  curtain,  I  suddenly 
realized  her  intention,  and  a  very  agony  of  bashfulness 
seized  upon  me.  I  struggled  frantically.  "  Oh,  don't !  " 
I  begged.  "  Oh,  please,  I'm  nobody,  they  won't  like  it, 
Miss  St.  Clair." 

She  motioned  the  men  to  pull  back  the  curtain,  and 
she  dragged  me  out  before  it  with  her.  The  applause 
redoubled.  Shamed  and  stupid,  I  stood  there,  my  chin 
on  my  breast.  Then  I  heard  the  laugh  I  so  admired 
(Miss  St.  Clair  had  a  laugh  that  the  word  merry  de- 
scribes perfectly),  her  arm  went  about  my  neck,  while 
her  fingers  beneath  my  chin  lifted  my  face  till  I  met  her 
smiling  glance  and  smiled  back  at  her.  Then  the  audi- 
ence burst  into  a  great  laugh,  and  bowing  awkwardly  to 
them  and  to  her,  I  backed  off,  out  of  sight,  as  quickly 
as  I  could ;  she,  bowing  like  a  young  prince,  followed 
me.  But  again  they  called,  and  again  the  generous  woman 
took  me  with  her. 

And  that  was  the  first  time  I  ever  experienced  the 
honor  of  going  before  the  curtain  with  a  star.  I  sup- 
posed I  had  received  the  highest  possible  reward  for  my 
night's  work;  I  forgot  there  were  such  things  as  news- 
papers in  the  town,  but  I  was  reminded  of  their  existence 
the  next  day. 


NEWSPAPER  PRAISE  147 

Never,  never  was  I  so  astonished.  Such  notices  as 
were  given  of  the  performance,  and  what  was  particu- 
larly dwelt  upon,  think  you  ?  Why,  the  tears.  "  Real 
tears  —  tears  that  left  streaks  on  the  girl's  cheeks ! " 
said  one  paper.  "  Who  is  she  —  have  you  seen  her  — 
the  wonderful  Columbus  ballet-girl,  who  wins  tears  with 
tears,  real  ones,  too  ?  "  asked  another. 

I  was  ashamed.  I  was  afraid  people  would  make  fun 
of  me  at  the  theatre.  At  the  box-office  window  that  day 
many  people  were  asking :  "  That  girl  that  made  the  hit 
last  night,  is  she  really  one  of  the  ballet,  or  is  it  just  a 
story,  for  effect?" 

Some  women  asked,  anxiously :  "  Will  that  girl  cry 
to-night,  do  you  think  ?  " 

It  was  very  strange.  One  paper  had  a  quieter  article ; 
it  spoke  of  a  rough  diamond  —  of  an  earnest,  honest 
method  of  addressing  speeches  directly  to  the  character, 
instead  of  to  the  audience,  as  did  many  of  the  older 
actors.  It  claimed  a  future,  a  fair,  bright  future  for  the 
girl  who  could  so  thoroughly  put  herself  in  another's 
place,  and  declared  it  would  watch  with  interest  the 
movements  of  so  remarkable  a  ballet-girl. 

Now  see  how  oddly  we  human  dice  are  shaken  about, 
and  in  what  groups  we  fall,  again  and  again.  Among 
the  honorable  gentlemen  sitting  at  that  time  in  the  Ohio 
Legislature  was  Colonel  Bonn  Piatt,  with  the  fever  of  the 
Southern  marshes  yet  in  his  blood  as  a  souvenir  of  his 
services  through  the  war.  He  had  gone  languidly  enough 
to  the  theatre  that  night,  because  there  was  nothing  else 
for  him  to  do  —  unless  he  swapped  stories  of  the  war 
in  the  hotel  corridor  with  other  ex-soldiers,  and  he  was 
sick  to  death  of  that,  and  he  was  so  surprised  by  what 
he  saw  that  he  was  moved  to  write  the  article  from  which 
the  last  quotation  is  taken.  Stopping  in  the  same  hotel, 
but  quite  unknown  to  him,  was  a  young  man,  hardly  out 
of  boyhood,  whose  only  lie,  I  honestly  believe,  was  the 
one  he  told  and  swore  to  in  order  to  raise  his  age  to  the 
proper  military  height  that  would  admit  him  into  the 


148  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

army.  Bright,  energetic,  almost  attaining  perpetual  mo- 
tion in  his  own  person,  ambitious  John  A.  Cockerill 
just  then  served  in  the  double  capacity  of  a  messenger  in 
the  House  and  reporter  on  a  paper.  Diphtheria,  which 
was  almost  epidemic  that  winter,  visited  the  staff  of  the 
paper  he  was  on,  and  in  consequence  he  was  temporarily 
assigned  to  its  dramatic  work  —  thus  he  wrote  another 
of  the  notices  of  my  first  venture  in  the  tearful  drama. 
Every  day  these  two  men  were  in  the  State-house  — 
every  day  I  walked  through  its  grounds  on  my  way  to 
and  from  the  theatre  —  each  quite  unconscious  of  the 
others. 

But  old  Time  shakes  the  box  and  casts  the  dice  so 
many,  many  times,  groupings  must  repeat  themselves 
now  and  again,  so  it  came  about  that  after  years  filled 
with  hard  work  and  fair  dreams,  another  shake  of  the 
box  cast  us  down  upon  the  table  of  Life,  grouped  to- 
gether again  —  but  each  man  knew  and  served  me  now 
faithfully,  loyally ;  each  giving  me  a  hand  to  pull  me  up 
a  step  higher.  They  hated  each  other  bitterly,  vindic- 
tively, as  journalists  have  been  known  to  do  occasionally ; 
and  as  I  knew  the  noble  qualities  of  both,,  what  better 
reward  could  I  give  for  their  goodnessVto  me  than  to 
clasp  their  hands  together  and  make  them  friends?  It 
was  not  an  easy  task,  it  required  finesse  as  well  as  cour- 
age, but  'twas  the  kind  of  task  a  woman  loves  —  if  she 
succeeds,  and  I  succeeded. 

They  became  friends,  strong,  earnest  friends  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives.  Death  severed  the  bond,  if  it  is  sev- 
ered; I  do  not  know,  and  they  may  not  return  to  tell 
me  —  I  only  know  that  in  the  years  that  were  to  come, 
when  each  man  headed  a  famous  paper,  Colonel  John 
A.  Cockerill,  of  the  New  York  World,  who  wrote  many 
a  high  word  of  praise  for  me  when  victory  had  at  last 
perched  on  my  banner,  and  Colonel  Piatt,  who  with  his 
brilliant  wife  made  me  known  to  many  famous  men  and 
women  in  their  hospitable  Washington  home,  loved  to 
recall  that  night  in  Columbus  when,  all  unconsciously, 


CONGRATULATIONS  149 

we  three  came  so  near  to  each  other,  only  to  drift  apart 
for  years  and  come  together  again. 

And  once  I  said,  "  like  motes,"  and  Donn  Piatt  swiftly 
added,  "  and  a  sunbeam,"  and  both  men  lifted  their 
glasses  and,  nodding  laughingly  at  me,  cried :  "  To  the 
sunbeam !  "  while  Mrs.  Piatt  declared,  "  That's  a  very 
pretty  compliment,"  but  to  me  the  unanimity  of  thought 
between  those  erstwhile  enemies  was  the  prettiest  thing 
about  it. 

But  even  so  small  a  success  as  that  had  its  attendant 
shadows,  as  I  soon  found.  Though  I  was  then  boarding, 
with  Hattie  McKee  for  my  room-mate,  I  felt  I  still  owed 
a  certain  duty  and  respect  to  Mrs.  Bradshaw.  Therefore, 
when  this  wonderful  thing  happened  to  me,  I  thought 
I  ought  to  go  and  tell  her  all  about  it.  I  went ;  she  gave 
me  a  polite,  unsmiling  good-morning  and  pointed  to  a 
chair.  I  felt  chilled.  Presently  she  remarked,  with  a 
small,  forced  laugh :  "  You  have  become  so  great  a  per- 
son, I  scarcely  expected  to  see  you  here  to-day." 

I  looked  reproachfully  at  her,  as  I  quietly  answered: 
"  But  you  see  I  am  here ;  "  then  added,  "  I  did  not  think 
you  would  make  fun  of  me,  Mrs.  Bradshaw,  I  only  tried 
to  do  my  best." 

"  Oh,"  she  replied,  "  one  does  not  make  fun  of  very 
successful  people." 

I  turned  away  to  hide  my  filling  eyes,  as  I  remarked : 
"  Perhaps  I'd  better  go  away  now." 

I  moved  toward  the  door,  wounded  to  the  heart.  I 
had  thought  she  would  be  so  pleased  —  you  see,  I  was 
young  yet,  and  sometimes  very  stupid  —  I  forgot  she  had 
a  daughter.  But  suddenly  she  called  to  me  in  the  old, 
kindly  voice  I  was  so  used  to :  "  Come  back,  Clara,"  she 
cried,  "  come  back !  It's  mean  to  punish  you  for  an- 
other's fault.  My  dear,  I  congratulate  you;  you  have 
only  proved  what  I  have  long  believed,  that  you  have  in 
you  the  making  of  a  fine  actress.  But  when  I  think  who 
had  that  same  chance,  and  that  it  was  deliberately  thrown 
away,"  her  lips  trembled,  "I  —  well,  it's  hard  to  bear. 


150  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

Even  all  this  to-do  about  you  in  the  part  does  not  make 
her  regret  what  she  has  done." 

Poor  mother !  I  felt  so  sorry  for  her.  I  wished  to  go 
away  then,  I  thought  my  presence  was  unpleasant,  but 
she  made  me  tell  her  all  about  the  evening,  and  describe 
Miss  St.  Clair's  dress,  and  what  everyone  said  and  did. 
Loyal  soul !  I  think  that  was  a  self-inflicted  penance  for 
a  momentary  unkindness. 

Blanche  gave  me  her  usual  kind  greeting,  and  added 
the  words :  "  Say,  if  I  hadn't  given  you  the  chance,  you 
couldn't  have  been  a  big  gun  to-day.  You  know  Mr. 
Ellsler  won't  dare  to  give  you  anything,  but  he  would 
have  given  me  a  nice  present  if  I  had  done  the  part  for 
him.  So  after  all  I've  lost,  I  think  you  might  give  me 
a  new  piece  of  chewing-gum,  mine  won't  snap  or  squeak 
or  stretch  out  or  do  anything,  it's  just  in  its  crumbly 
old  age." 

I  gave  the  new  gum;  so,  now,  if  that  success  seems 
not  quite  square,  if  you  think  I  made  an  unfair  use  of 
my  funds  in  obtaining  promotion,  do  please  remember 
that  I  was  only  an  accessory  after  the  act  —  not  before 
it.  I  am  the  more  anxious  this  should  be  impressed  upon 
your  mind  because  that  penny  was  the  only  one  I  ever 
spent  in  paying  for  advancement  professionally. 

The  second  night  of  the  "  Lone  House  "  was  also  the 
last  night  of  Miss  St.  Clair's  engagement,  and  when  I 
carried  her  blue-brocade  gown  back  to  her,  eagerly  call- 
ing attention  to  its  spotless  condition,  she  stood  with  her 
hand  high  against  the  wall  and  her  head  resting  heavily 
upon  her  outstretched  arm.  It  was  an  attitude  of  such 
utter  collapse,  there  was  such  a  wanness  on  her  white 
face  that  the  commonplace  words  ceased  to  bubble  over 
my  lips,  and,  startled,  I  turned  toward  her  husband. 
Charles  Barras,  gentleman  as  he  was  by  birth  and  breed- 
ing, and  one  time  officer  in  the  American  navy,  was  never- 
theless in  manner  and  appearance  so  odd  that  the  sight 
or  the  sound  of  him  provoked  instant  smiles,  but  that 
night  his  eyes  were  a  tragedy,  filled  as  they  were  with 
an  anguish  of  helpless  love. 


CHARLES   BARRAS  151 

For  a  sad  moment  he  gazed  at  her  silently  —  then  he 
was  counting  drops  from  a  bottle,  holding  smelling-salts 
to  her  pinched  nostrils^  removing  her  riding-boots,  in- 
deed, deftly  filling  the  place  not  only  of  nurse,  but  dress- 
ing-maid, and  as  the  wanness  gradually  faded  from  her 
weary  face,  bravely  ignoring  her  own  feelings,  she  made 
a  little  joke  or  two,  then  gave  me  hearty  thanks  for  com- 
ing to  her  rescue,  as  she  called  it,  praised  my  effort  at 
acting,  and  asked  me  how  I  liked  a  crying  part. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  like  it  at  all,"  I  answered. 

"  Ah,"  she  sighed,  "  we  never  like  what  we  do  best ; 
that's  why  I  can  never  be  contented  in  elegant  light  com- 
edy, but  must  strain  and  fret  after  dramatic,  tragic,  and 
pathetic  parts  —  and  to  think  that  a  young,  untrained 
girl  should  step  out  of  obscurity  and  without  an  effort 
do  what  I  have  failed  in  all  these  years !  " 

I  stood  aghast.  "  Why  —  why,  Miss  St.  Clair !  "  I  ex- 
claimed, "  you  have  applause  and  applause  every  night 
of  your  life !  " 

"  Oh,"  she  laughed,  "  you  foolish  child,  it's  not  the 
applause  I'm  thinking  of,  but  something  finer,  rarer. 
You  have  won  tears,  my  dear,  a  thing  I  have  never  done 
in  all  my  life,  and  never  shall,  no,  never,  I  see  that  now !  " 

"  I  wish  I  had  not ! "  I  answered,  remorsefully  and 
quite  honestly,  because  I  was  quite  young  and  unselfish 
yet,  and  I  loved  her,  and  she  understood  and  leaned  over 
and  kissed  my  cheek,  and  told  me  not  to  bury  my  talent, 
but  to  make  good  use  of  it  by  and  by  when  I  was  older 
and  free  to  choose  a  line  of  business.  "  Though,"  she 
added,  "  even  here  I'll  wager  it's  few  comedy  parts  that 
will  come  your  way  after  to-night,  young  lady."  And 
then  I  left  her. 

That  same  night  I  heard  that  a  dread  disease  already 
abode  with  her,  and  slept  and  waked  and  went  and  came 
with  her,  and  would  not  be  shaken  off,  but  clung  ever 
closer  and  closer ;  and,  oh !  poor  Charles  Barras !  money 
might  have  saved  her  then  —  money  right  then  might  have 
saved  this  woman  of  his  love,  and  God  only  knows  how 


152  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

desperately  he  struggled,  but  the  money  came  not.  Then, 
worse  still,  Sallie  was  herself  the  bread-winner,  and  though 
Mr.  Barras  worked  hard,  doing  writing  and  translating, 
acting  as  agent,  as  nurse,  as  maid,  playing,  too,  in  a  two- 
act  comedy,  "  The  Hypochondriac,"  he  still  felt  the  sting 
of  living  on  his  wife's  earnings,  and  she  had,  too,  a 
mother  and  an  elder  sister  to  support;  therefore  she 
worked  on  and  disease  worked  with  her. 

Charles  Barras  said,  with  bitter  sarcasm  in  his  voice: 
"  I-I-I  always  see  m-my  wife  Sallie  with  a  helpless 
woman  over  each  shoulder,  a-a-and  myself  on  her  back, 
like  the  '  old  man  of  the  sea/  a-a-a  pretty  heavy  burden 
that  for  a  sick  woman  to  carry,  my  girl !  a-a-and  a  mighty 
pleasant  picture  for  a  man  to  have  of  his  wife !  A-a-and 
money  —  great  God,  money,  right  now,  might  save  her 

—  might  save  her !  "    He  turned  suddenly  from  me  and 
walked  on  to  the  pitch-dark  stage. 

Poor  Mr.  Barras,  I  could  laugh  no  more  at  his  heel- 
less  boots,  his  funny  half-stammer,  and  his  ancient  wig, 
not  even  when  I  recall  the  memory  of  that  blazing  Sun- 
day in  a  Cincinnati  Episcopal  church,  when,  the  stately 
liturgy  over,  the  Reverend  Doctor  ascended  the  pulpit 
and,  regardless  of  the  suffering  of  his  sweltering  hearers, 
droned  on  endlessly,  and  Mr.  Barras  leaned  forward,  and 
drawing  a  large  palm  fan  from  the  next  pew's  rack, 
calmly  lifted  his  wig  off  with  one  hand  while  with  the 
other  he  alternately  fanned  his  ivory  bald  head  and  the 
steaming  interior  of  his  wig.  The  action  had  an  electrical 
effect.  In  a  moment  even  the  sleepers  were  alert,  awake, 
a  fact  which  so  startled  the  preacher  that  he  lost  his  place 

—  hemmed  —  h-h-med,  and  ran  down,  found  the  place 
again,  started,  saw  Barras  fanning  his  wig,  though  pay- 
ing still  most  decorous  attention  to  the  pulpit,  and  be- 
fore they  knew  it  they  were  all  scrambling  to  their  feet 
at  "  Might,  Majesty,  and  Power !  "  —  were  scrabbling"  for 
their  pockets  at  "  Let  your  light  so  shine,"  for  Mr.  Barras 
had  shortened  the  service  with  a  vengeance ;    hence  the 
forgiving  glances  cast  upon  him  as  he  carefully  replaced 
his  wig  and  sauntered  forth. 


"BLACK   CROOK'S"   AUTHOR      153 

Several  years  after  that  night  in  Columbus,  when  I  had 
reached  New  York  and  was  rehearsing  for  my  first  ap- 
pearance there,  I  one  morning  heard  hasty,  shuffling  steps 
following  me,  and  before  I  could  enter  the  stage-door, 
a  familiar  "  Er-er-er  Clara,  Clara ! "  stopped  me,  and  I 
turned  to  face  the  wealthy  author  of  the  "  Black  Crook  " 
-  Mr.  Charles  Barras.  There  he  stood  in  apparently 
the  same  heelless  cloth  gaiters,  the  same  empty-looking 
black  alpaca  suit,  the  clumsy  turned-over  collar  that  was 
an  integral  part  of  the  shirt  and  not  separate  from  it,  the 
big  black  satin  handkerchief-tie  that  he  had  worn  years 
ago,  but  the  face,  how  bloodless,  shrunken,  line"d,  and 
sorrowful  it  looked  beneath  the  adamantine  youthfulness 
of  that  chestnut  wig ! 

"  D-d-don't  you  know  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  do,"  I  answered  as  I  took  his  hand. 

"  W-w-well  then  don't  run  away  —  er-er  it's  against 
law,  r-religion,  or  decency  to  turn  your  back  on  a  rich 
man.  D-d-dodge  the  poor,  Clara,  my  girl!  but  never 
turn  your  back  on  a  man  with  money !  " 

I  was  pained;  probably  I  looked  so.  He  went  on: 
"  I-I-I'm  rich  now,  Clara.  I've  got  a  fine  marine  villa, 
and  in  it  are  an  old,  old  dog  and  a  dying  old  woman. 
They  both  belonged  to  my  Sallie,  and  so  I'll  keep  hold  of 
'em  as  long  as  I  can,  for  her  sake.  A-a-after  they  go !  " 
he  turned  his  head  away,  he  looked  up  at  the  beautiful 
blue  indifference  of  the  sky,  his  face  seemed  to  tremble  all 
over,  his  eyes  came  back,  and  he  muttered :  "  W-w- we'll 
see  —  w-w-we'll  see  what  will  happen  then.  But,  Clara, 
you  remember  that  time  when  money  could  have  saved 
her?  The  money  I  receive  in  one  week  now,  if  I  could 
have  had  it  then,  she,  Sallie,  might  be  over  there  on 
Broadway  now  buying  the  frills  and  furbelows  she  loved 
and  needed,  too,  and  couldn't  have.  The  little  boots  and 
slippers  —  you  remember  Sallie's  instep?  Had  to  have 
her  shoes  to  order  always,"  he  stopped,  he  pressed  his 
lips  tight  together  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly  he  burst 
out :  "  By  God,  when  a  man  struggles  hard  all  his  life, 


154  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

it's  a  damn  rough  reward  to  give  him  a  handsome  coffin 
for  his  wife !  " 

Oh,  poor  rich  man !  how  my  heart  ached  for  him.  A 
tear  slipped  down  my  cheek ;  he  saw  it.  "  D-d-don't !  " 
he  said,  "  d-don't,  my  girl,  she  can't  come  back,  and  it 
hurts  her  to  have  anyone  grieve.  I  want  you  to  come 
and  see  me,  when  you  get  settled  here,  a-a-and  I  wish 
you  a  great  big  success.  My  Sallie  liked  you,  she  spoke 
often  of  you.  I-I-F11  let  you  know  how  to  get  out  there, 
and  I-I-I'll  show  you  her  dog  —  old  Belle,  and  you  can 
stroke  her,  and  er-er  sit  in  Sallie's  chair  a  little  while 
perhaps  —  and  er  —  don't,  my  girl,  don't  cry,  she  can't 
come  back,  you  know,"  and  shaking  my  hands  he  left 
me,  thinking  I  was  crying  for  Sallie,  who  was  safe  at 
rest  and  had  no  need  of  tears,  while  instead  they  were 
for  himself  —  so  old,  so  sad,  so  lonely,  such  a  poor  rich 
man!  Did  he  know  then  how  near  Death  was  to  him? 
Some  who  knew  him  well  believe  unto  this  day  that  the 
fatal  fall  from  the  cars  was  no  fall,  but  a  leap  —  only 
God  knows. 

I  never  paid  the  promised  visit  —  could  find  no  oppor- 
tunity —  and  I  never  saw  him  again,  that  eccentric  man, 
devoted  husband,  and  honest  gentleman,  Charles  Barras. 


CHAPTER   TWENTIETH 

I  Have  to  Pass  through  Bitter  Humiliation  to  Win  High 
Encomiums  from  Herr  Bandmann ;  while  Edwin  Booth's 
Kindness  Fills  the  Theatre  with  Pink  Clouds,  and  I 
Float  Thereon. 

OCCASIONALLY  one  person  united  two  'lines 
of  business,"  as  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Bradshaw, 
who  played  "  old  women  "  and  "  heavy  business  " 
both,  and  when  anything  happened  to  disqualify  such  a 
person  for  work  the  inconvenience  was  of  course  very 
great.  Mrs.  Bradshaw,  as  I  have  said  before,  was  very 
stout,  but  her  frame  was  delicate  in  the  extreme,  and  her 
slender  ankles  were  unable  to  bear  her  great  weight,  and 
one  of  them  broke.  Of  course  that  meant  a  long  lying 
up  in  dry-dock  for  her,  and  any  amount  of  worry  for  ever 
so  many  other  people.  Right  in  the  middle  of  her  im- 
prisonment came  the  engagement  of  the  German  actor, 
Herr  Daniel  Bandmann.  He  was  to  open  with  "  Ham- 
let," and,  gracious  Heaven!  I  was  cast  for  the  Queen- 
mother.  It  took  a  good  deal  in  the  way  of  being  asked 
to  do  strange  parts  to  startle  me,  but  the  Queen-mother 
did  it.  I  was  just  nicely  past  sixteen,  but  even  I  dared 
not  yet  lay  claim  to  seventeen,  and  I  was  to  go  on  the 
stage  for  the  serious  Shakespearian  mother  of  a  star. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't!" 

"  Can't  be  helped  —  no  one  else,"  growled  Mr.  Ellsler. 
"  Just  study  your  lines,  right  away,  and  do  the  best  you 
can." 

I  had  been  brought  up  to  obey,  and  I  obeyed.  We 
had  heard  much  of  Mr.  Bandmann,  of  his  originality,  his 
impetuosity,  and  I  had  been  very  anxious  to  see  him. 

i55 


ij6  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

After  that  cast,  however,  I  would  gladly  have  deferred 
the  pleasure.  The  dreaded  morning  came.  Mr.  Band- 
mann, a  very  big  man,  to  my  frightened  eyes  looked 
gigantic.  He  was  dark-skinned,  he  had  crinkly,  flowing 
hair,  his  eyes  were  of  the  curious  red-brown  color  of  a  ripe 
chestnut.  He  was  large  of  voice,  and  large  of  gesture. 
There  was  a  greeting,  a  few  introductions,  and  then  re- 
hearsal was  on,  and  soon,  oh!  so  soon,  there  came  the 
call  for  the  Queen.  I  came  forward.  He  glanced  down 
at  me,  half  smiled,  waved  his  arm,  and  said :  "  Not  you, 
not  the  Player-Queen,  but  Gertrude." 

I  faintly  answered :  "I'm  sorry,  sir,  but  I  have  to  play 
Gertrude/' 

"  Oh,  no  you  won't !  "  he  cried,  "  not  with  me !  "  He 
was  furious,  he  stamped  his  feet,  he  turned  to  the  man- 
ager :  "  What's  all  this  infernal  nonsense  ?  I  want  a 
woman  for  this  part!  What  kind  of  witches'  broth  are 
you  serving  me,  with  an  old  woman  for  my  Ophelia,  and 
an  apple-cheeked  girl  for  my  mother!  She  can't  speak 
these  lines !  she,  dumpling  face !  " 

Mr.  Ellsler  said,  quietly :  "  There  is  sickness  in  my 
company.  The  heavy  woman  cannot  act ;  this  young  girl 
will  not  look  the  part,  of  course,  but  you  need  have  no 
fear  about  the  lines,  she  never  loses  a  word." 

"  Curse  the  words!  It  is,  that  that  little  girl  shall  not 
read  with  the  sense  one  line,  no,  not  one  line  of  the 
Shakespeare !  "  his  English  was  fast  going  in  his  rage. 

Mr.  Ellsler  answered :  "  She  will  read  the  part  as  well 
as  you  ever  heard  it  in  your  life,  Mr.  Bandmann."  And 
Mr.  Bandmann  gave  a  jeering  laugh,  and  snapped  his 
fingers  loudly. 

It  was  most  insulting,  and  I  felt  overwhelmed  with 
humiliation.  Mr.  Ellsler  said,  angrily :  "  Very  well,  as 
I  have  no  one  else  to  offer  you,  we  will  close  the  theatre 
for  the  night !  " 

But  Mr.  Bandmann  did  not  want  to  close  —  not  he. 
So,  after  swearing  in  German  for  a  time,  he  resumed 
rehearsal,  and  when  my  time  came  to  speak  I  could 


ACTING   WITH   BANDMANN       157 

scarcely  lift  my  drooping  head  or  conquer  the  lump  in 
my  throat,  but,  somehow,  I  got  out  the  entreating  words : 

"  Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  Knighted  color  off, 
And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark." 

He  lifted  his  head  suddenly  —  I  went  on : 

44  Do  not,  for  ever,  with  thy  veiled  lids 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust." 

He  exclaimed,  surprisedly :  "  So !  so !  "  as  I  continued 
my  speech.  Now  in  this  country,  "  So  —  so !  "  is  a  term 
applied  to  restless  cows  at  milking-time,  and  the  devil 
of  ridicule,  never  long  at  rest  in  my  mind,  suddenly 
wakened,  so  that  when  I  had  to  say: 

44  Let  not  thy  mother  lose  her  prayers,  Hamlet: 
I  pray  thee,  stay  with  us  ;  go  not  to  Wittenberg. " 

and  Mr.  Bandmann  smilingly  cried :  "  So !  so !  "  and  I 
swiftly  added  the  word  "  Bossy,"  and  every  soul  on  the 
stage  broke  into  laughter.  He  saw  he  was  laughed  at, 
and  it  took  a  whole  week's  time  and  an  elaborate  explana- 
tion, to  enable  him  to  grasp  the  jest  —  but  when  he  got 
a  good  hold  of  it,  he  so!  so!  bossied  and  stamped  and 
laughed  at  a  great  rate. 

During  the  rehearsal  —  which  was  difficult  in  the  ex- 
treme, as  his  business  (i.e.,  actions  or  poses  accompany- 
ing certain  words)  was  very  different  from  that  we  were 
used  to  —  he  never  found  one  single  fault  with  my  read- 
ing, and  made  just  one  suggestion,  which  I  was  most 
careful  to  follow  —  for  one  taste  of  his  temper  had  been 
enough. 

Then  came  the  night  —  a  big  house,  too,  I  remember. 
I  wore  long  and  loose  garments  to  make  me  look  more 
matronly ;  but,  alas !  the  drapery  Queen  Gertrude  wears, 
passed  under  her  jaws  from  ear  to  ear,  was  particularly 
becoming  to  me,  and  brought  me  uncommonly  near  to 


158  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

prettiness.  Mr.  Ellsler  groaned,  but  said  nothing,  while 
Mr.  Bandmann  sneered  out  an  "  Ach  Himmel !  "  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  made  me  feel  real  nice  and  happy. 
And  when  one  considers  that  without  me  the  theatre  must 
have  closed  or  changed  its  bill,  even  while  one  pities  him 
for  the  infliction,  one  feels  he  was  unnecessarily  unkind. 

Well,  all  went  quietly  until  the  closet  scene  —  between 
Hamlet,  the  Queen,  and  the  Ghost.  It  is  a  great  scene, 
and  he  had  some  very  effective  business.  I  forgot  Band- 
mann in  Hamlet.  I  tried  hard  to  show  shame,  pride, 
and  terror.  The  applause  was  rapturous.  The  curtain 
fell,  and  —  why,  what,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  was  hap- 
pening to  me  ? 

I  was  caught  by  the  arms  and  lifted  high  in  air ;  when 
I  came  down  I  was  crushed  to  Hamlet's  bosom,  with  a 
crackling  sound  of  breaking  Roman-pearl  beads,  and  in 
a  whirlwind  of  "  Himmels !  "  "  Gotts !  "  and  things,  I  was 
kissed  with  frenzied  wet  kisses  on  either  cheek  —  on  my 
brow  —  my  eyes.  Then  disjointed  English  came  forth: 
"  Oh,  you  so  great,  you  kleine  apple-cheeked  girl !  you 
maker  of  the  fraud  —  you  so  great  nobody!  ach!  you 
are  fire  —  you  have  pride  —  you  are  a  Gertrude  who 
have  shame !  "  More  kisses,  then  suddenly  he  realized 
the  audience  was  still  applauding  —  loudly  and  heartily. 
He  grasped  my  hand,  he  dragged  me  before  the  curtain, 
he  bowed,  he  waved  his  hands,  he  threw  one  arm  about 
my  shoulders. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  I  thought,  "  he  isn't  going  to  do  it 
all  over  again  —  out  here,  is  he  ?  "  and  I  began  backing 
out  of  sight  as  quickly  as  possible. 

It  was  a  very  comforting  plaster  to  apply  to  my 
wounds  —  such  a  success  as  that,  but  it  would  have 
been  so  much  pleasanter  not  to  have  received  the  wound 
in  the  first  place. 

Mr.  Bandmann's  best  work,  I  think,  was  done  in  "  Nar- 
cisse."     His  Hamlet  seemed  to  me  too  melodramatic  - 
if  I  may  say  so.    If  Hamlet  had  had  all  that  tremendous 
fund  of  energy,  all  that  love  of  action,  the.  Ghost  need 


EDWIN   BOOTH   JOINS   US         159 

never  have  returned  to  "  whet  his  almost  blunted  pur- 
pose." Nor  could  I  like  his  scene  with  his  guilty  mother. 
There  was  not  even  a  forced  show  of  respect  for  her. 
There  was  no  grief  for  her  wrong-doing  —  rather,  his 
whole  tone  was  that  of  a  triumphant  detective.  And  his 
speeches,  "  Such  an  act !  "  and  "  Look  upon  this  picture !  " 
were  given  with  such  unction  —  such  a  sneeringly,  per- 
fect comprehension  of  her  lust,  as  to  become  themselves 
lustful. 

His  Shylock  was  much  admired,  I  believe,  but  Nar- 
cisse  was  a  most  artistic  piece  of  work.  His  appearance 
was  superb;  his  philosophical  flippancy  anent  his  pov- 
erty, his  biting  contempt  of  the  powerful  Pompadour; 
his  passion  and  madness  on  discovering  his  lost  wife  in 
the  person  of  the  dying  favorite,  and  his  own  death,  were 
really  great. 

And  just  one  little  month  after  the  departure  of  the 
impetuous  German,  who  should  be  announced  but  Mr. 
Edwin  Booth.  I  felt  my  eyes  growing  wider  as  I  read 
in  the  cast,  "  Queen  Gertrude  —  Miss  Morris."  Uncle 
Dick,  behind  me,  said :  "  Would  you  like  me  to  d — n 
poor  Brad's  bones  for  you,  Clara?  It's  hard  lines  on 
you,  and  that's  a  fact !  "" 

"  Oh !  "  I  thought,  "  why  won't  her  blessed  old  bones 
mend  themselves !  she  is  not  lazy,  but  they  are !  oh,  dear ! 
oh,  dear !  "  and  miserable  tears  slid  down  my  cheeks  all 
the  way  home,  and  moistened  saltily  my  supper  of  crack- 
ers after  I  got  there. 

I  had  succeeded  before,  oh,  yes ;  but  I  could  not  help 
recalling  just  how  hot  the  ploughshares  were  over  which 
I  had  walked  to  reach  that  success.  Then,  too,  all  girls 
have  their  gods  —  some  have  many  of  them.  Some  girls 
change  them  often.  My  gods  were  few.  Sometimes  I 
cast  one  down,  but  I  never  changed  them,  and  on  the 
highest,  whitest  pedestal  of  all,  grave  and  gentle,  stood 
the  god  of  my  professional  idolatry  —  Edwin  Booth.  I 
wiped  oil  cracker-crumbs  with  one  hand  and  tears  with 
the  other. 


i6o  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

It  was  so  humiliating  to  be  forced  upon  anyone,  as  I 
should  be  forced  upon  Mr.  Booth,  since  there  was  still 
no  one  but  my  "  apple-cheeked  "  self  to  go  on  for  the 
Queen;  and  though  I  dreaded  indignant  complaint  or 
disparaging  remarks  from  him,  I  was  honestly  more  un- 
happy over  the  annoyance  this  blemish  on  the  cast  would 
cause  him.  Well,  it  could  not  be  helped,  I  should  have 
to  bear  a  second  cruel  mortification,  that  was  all.  I  put 
my  four  remaining  crackers  back  in  their  box,  brushed 
up  the  crumbs,  wiped  my  eyes,  repeated  my  childish  little 
old-time  "  Now  I  lay  me,"  and  went  to  sleep ;  only  to 
dream  of  Mr.  Booth  holding  out  a  hideous  mask,  and 
pressing  me  to  have  the  decency  to  put  it  on  before  going 
on  the  stage  for  Gertrude. 

When  the  dreaded  Monday  came,  lo !  a  blizzard  came 
with  it.  The  trains  were  all  late,  or  stalled  entirely.  We 
rehearsed,  but  there  was  no  Mr.  Booth  present.  He  was 
held  in  a  drift  somewhere  on  the  line,  and  at  night,  there- 
fore, we  all  went  early  to  the  theatre,  so  that  if  he  came 
we  would  have  time  to  go  over  the  important  scenes  — 
or  if  he  did  not  come  that  we  might  prepare  for  another 
play. 

He  came.  Oh,  how  my  heart  sank!  This  would  be 
worse  for  him  even  than  it  had  been  for  Mr.  Bandmann, 
for  the  latter  knew  of  his  disappointing  Queen  in  the 
morning,  and  had  time  to  get  over  the  shock,  but  poor 
Mr.  Booth  was  to  receive  his  blow  only  a  few  minutes 
before  going  on  the  stage.  At  last  it  came  —  the  call. 

"  Mr.  Booth  would  like  to  see  you  for  a  few  moments 
in  his  room." 

I  went,  I  was  cold  all  over.  He  was  so  tired,  he  would 
be  so  angry.  I  tapped.  I  went  in.  He  was  dressed  for 
Hamlet,  but  he  was  adding  a  touch  to  his  brows,  and 
snipping  a  little  at  his  nails  —  hurriedly.  He  looked  up, 
said  "  Good-evening !  "  rather  absently,  then  stopped, 
looked  again,  smiled,  and  waving  his  hand  slightly,  said, 
just  in  Bandmann's  very  words :  "  No,  not  you  —  not 
the  Player-Queen  —  but  Gertrude" 


GERTRUDE  TO  BOOTH'S  HAMLET    161 

Tears  rushed  to  my  eyes,  my  whole  heart  was  in  my 
voice  as  I  gasped :  "  I'm  so  sorry,  sir,  but  /  have  to  do 
Queen  Gertrude.  You  see,"  I  rushed  on,  "  our  heavy 
woman  has  a  broken  leg  and  can't  act." 

A  whimsical  look,  half  smile,  half  frown,  came  over 
his  face.  "  That's  bad  for  the  heavy  woman,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"  Yes,"  I  acquiesced,  "  but,  if  you  please,  I  had  to  do 
this  part  with  Mr.  Bandmann  too,  and  —  and  —  I'll  only 
worry  you  with  my  looks,  sir,  not  about  the  words  or 
business." 

He  rested  his  dark,,  unspeakably  melancholy  eyes  on 
my  face,  his  brows  raised  and  then  knit  themselves  in 
such  troubled  wise  as  made  me  long  to  put  an  arm  about 
his  shoulders  and  assure  him  I  wouldn't  be  so  awfully  bad. 

Then  he  sighed  and  said :  "  Well,  it  was  the  closet- 
scene  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about.  When  the  Ghost  ap- 
pears, you  are  to  be — "  He  stopped,  a  faint  smile  touched 
his  lips,  even  reached  his  eyes ;  he  laid  down  his  scissors, 
and  remarked,  "  There's  no  denying  it,  my  girl,  I  look 
a  great  deal  more  like  your  father  than  you  look  like 
my  mother  —  but,"  he  went  on  with  his  directions,  and, 
considerate  gentleman  that  he  was,  spoke  no  single  un- 
kind word  to  me,  though  my  playing  of  that  part  must 
have  been  a  great  annoyance  to  him,  when  added  to  hun- 
ger and  fatigue. 

When  the  closet-scene  was  over,  the  curtain  down,  I 
caught  up  my  petticoats  and  made  a  rapid  flight  room- 
ward.  The  applause  was  filling  the  theatre.  Mr.  Booth, 
turning,  called  after  me :  "  You  —  er  —  Gertrude  —  er 
—  Queen!  Oh,  somebody  call  that  child  back  here,"  and 
someone  roared :  "  Clara  —  Mr.  Booth  is  calling  you !  " 

I  turned,  but  stood  still.  He  beckoned,  then  came  to 
me,  took  my  hand,  and  saying :  "  My  dear,  we  must  not 
keep  them  waiting  too  long !  "  led  me  before  the  curtain 
with  him.  I  very  slightly  bent  my  head  to  the  audience, 
whom  I  felt  were  applauding  Hamlet  only,  but  turned 
and  bowed  myself  to  the  ground  to  him  whose  courtesy 
had  brought  me  there. 


i62  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

When  we  came  off  he  smiled  amusedly,  tapped  me  on 
the  shoulder,  and  said :  "  My  Gertrude,  you  are  very 
young,  but  you  know  how  to  pay  a  pretty  compliment  — 
thank  you,  child !  " 

So,  whenever  you  see  pictures  of  nymphs  or  goddesses 
floating  on  pink  clouds,  and  looking  idiotically  happy, 
you  can  say  to  yourself:  "  That's  just  how  Clara  Morris 
felt  when  Edwin  Booth  said  she  had  paid  him  a  com- 
pliment." 

Yes,  I  floated,  and  I'll  take  a  solemn  oath,  if  necessary, 
that  the  whole  theatre  was  filled  with  pink  clouds  the  rest 
of  that  night  —  for  girls  are  made  that  way,  and  they 
can't  help  it. 

In  after  years  I  knew  him  better,  and  I  treasure  still 
the  little  note  he  sent  me  in  answer  to  my  congratulation 
on  his  escape  from  the  bullet  fired  at  him  from  the  gal- 
lery of  the  theatre  in  Chicago.  A  note  that  expressed 
as  much  gentle  surprise  at  my  "  kind  thought  for  him," 
as  though  I  only,  and  not  the  whole  country,  was  rejoic- 
ing at  his  safety. 

He  had  a  wonderful  power  to  win  love  from  other  men 
—  yes,  I  use  the  word  advisedly.  It  was  not  mere  good- 
fellowship  or  even  affection,  but  there  was  something  so 
fine  and  true,  so  strong  and  sweet  in  his  nature,  that  it 
won  the  love  of  those  who  knew  him  best. 

It  would  seem  like  presumption  for  me  to  try  to  add 
one  little  leaf  to  the  tight-woven  laurel  crown  he  wore. 
Everyone  knows  the  agony  of  his  "  Fool's  Revenge,"  the 
damnable  malice  of  his  lago,  the  beauty  and  fire  of  An- 
tony, and  the  pure  perfection  of  his  Hamlet  —  but  how 
many  knew  the  slow,  cruel  martyrdom  of  his  private 
life!  which  he  bore  with  such  mute  patience  that  in  my 
heart  there  is  an  altar  raised  to  the  memory  of  that  Saint 
Edwin  of  many  sorrows,  who  was  known  and  envied  by 
the  world  at  large  —  as  the  great  actor,  Edwin  Booth. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIRST 

I  Digress,  but  I  Return  to  the  Columbus  Engagement  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Kean — Their  Peculiarities  and 
Their  Work. 

BEFORE  one  has  "  arrived,"  it  is  astonishing  how 
precious  the  simplest  word  of  encouragement  or 
of  praise  becomes,  if  given  by  one  who  has  "  ar- 
rived."   Not  long  ago  a  lady  came  up  to  me  and  said :  "  I 

am  Mrs.  D ,  which  is,  of  coursCj  Greek  to  you;  but 

I  want  to  thank  you  now  for  your  great  goodness  to 
me  years  ago.  I  was  in  the  ballet  in  a  Chicago  theatre. 
You  were  playing  '  Camille.'  One  day  the  actress  who 
played  Olympe  was  sick,  and  as  I  was,  you  said,  the  tall- 
est and  the  handsomest  of  the  girls,  you  gave  the  part 
to  me.  I  was  wild  with  delight  until  the  nervousness 
got  hold  of  me.  I  was  not  strong  —  my  stomach  failed 
me ;  the  girls  thought  that  very  funny,  and  guyed  me 
unmercifully.  I  was  surely  breaking  down.  You  came 
along,  ready  to  go  on,  and  heard  them.  I  could  scarcely 
stand.  You  said :  '  What's  the  matter  —  are  you  ner- 
vous ? '  I  tried  to  speak,  but  only  nodded.  You  took 
my  hand  and,  stroking  it,  gently  said,  *  Isn't  it  awful  ? ' 
then,  glancing  at  my  tormentors,  added,  '  but  it's  noth- 
ing to  be  ashamed  of,  and  just  as  soon  as  you  face 
the  footlights  all  your  courage  will  come  back  to  you, 
and,  my  dear,  comfort  yourself  with  the  knowledge  that 
the  perfectly  collected,  self-satisfied  beginner  rarely  at- 
tains a  very  high  position  on  the  stage/  Oh,  if  you  only 
knew  how  my  heart  jumped  at  your  words.  My  fingers 
grew  warmer,  my  nerves  steadier,  and  I  really  did  suc- 
ceed in  getting  the  lines  over  my  lips  some  way.  But 
you  saved  me,  you  made  an  actress  of  me.  Ah,  don't 

163 


164 


LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 


laugh!  don't  shake  your  head,  please!  Had  I  failed 
that  night,  don't  you  see,  I  should  never  have  had  a 
chance  given  me  again ;  while,  having  got  through  safely, 
it  was  not  long  before  I  was  pointed  out  as  the  girl  who 
had  played  Olympe  with  Miss  Morris,  and  on  the  strength 
of  that  I  was  trusted  with  another  part,  and  so  crept  on 
gradually;  and  now  I  want  to  thank  you  for  the  sym- 
pathy and  kindness  you  showed  me  so  long  ago  " — and 
though  her  warm  gratitude  touched  me  deeply,  I  had 
then  —  have  now  —  no  recollection  whatever  of  the  in- 
cident she  referred  to,  nor  of  ever  having  seen  before 
her  very  handsome  face.  And  so,  no  doubt,  many  of 
whom  I  write,  who  from  their  abundance  cast  me  a  word 
of  praise  or  of  advice  now  and  again,  will  have  no  mem- 
ory of  the  largesse  which  I  have  cherished  all  these  years. 

Among  my  most  treasured  memories  I  find  the  gentle 
words  and  astonishing  prophecy  of  Mr.  Charles  Kean. 
That  was  the  last  visit  to  this  country  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Kean,  and  his  memory  was  failing  him  grievously.  He 
had  with  him  two  English  actors,  each  of  whom  knew 
every  line  of  all  his  parts,  and  their  duty  was,  when  on 
the  stage  or  off,  so  long  as  Mr.  Kean  was  before  the 
house,  to  keep  their  eyes  on  him,  and  at  the  first  sign  of 
hesitancy  on  his  part  one  of  them  gave  him  the  needed 
word.  Once  or  twice,  when  he  seemed  quite  bewildered, 
Mr.  Cathcart,  turning  his  back  to  the  audience,  spoke 
Mr.  Kean's  entire  speech,  imitating  his  nasal  tones  to  the 
life. 

But  it  was  off  the  stage  that  the  ancient  couple  were 
most  delightful.  Ellen  and  Charles  were  like  a  pair  of 
old,  old  love-birds  —  a  little  dull  of  eye,  nor  quite  per- 
fect in  the  preening  of  their  somewhat  rumpled  plumage, 
but  billing  and  cooing  with  all  the  persistency  and  satis- 
faction of  their  first  caging.  Their  appearance  upon  the 
street  provoked  amusement  —  sometimes  even  excitement. 
I  often  saw  drivers  of  drays  and  wagons  pull  up  their 
horses  and  stop  in  the  crowded  street  to  stare  at  them 
as  they  made  their  way  toward  the  theatre.  Mrs.  Kean 


MR.  AND  MRS.  CHARLES   KEAN     165 

lived  inside  of  the  most  astounding  hoop  woman  ever 
carried.  Its  size,  its  weight,  its  tilting  power  were  awful. 
Entrances  had  to  be  cleared  of  all  chairs  or  tables  to  ac- 
commodate Mrs.  Kean's  hoop.  People  scrambled  or  slid 
sideways  about  her  on  the  stage,  swearing  mentally  all 
the  time,  while  a  sudden  gasp  from  the  front  row  or  a 
groan  from  Mr.  Cathcart  announced  a  tilt  and  a  revela- 
tion of  heelless  slippers  and  dead-white  stockings,  and 
in  spite  of  his  dignity  Charles  was  not  above  a  joke  on 
Ellen's  hoop,  for  one  rainy  day,  as  she  strove  to  enter  a 
carriage  door  she  stuck  fast,  and  the  hoop  —  mercy!  It 
was  well  Mr.  Kean  was  there  to  hold  it  down ;  but  as  a 
troubled  voice  from  within  said :  "  I'm  caught  some- 
how —  don't  you  see,  Charles  ?  "  With  a  twinkling  eye 
Charles  replied :  "  Yes,  Ellen,  my  dear,  I  do  see  —  and 
-and  I'm  trying  to  keep  everyone  else  from  seeing, 
too ! "  a  speech  verging  so  closely  upon  impropriety  that, 
with  antique  coquetry,  Mrs.  Kean  punished  him  by  tweak- 
ing his  ear  when  he  squeezed  in  beside  her. 

The  Kean  bonnet  was  the  wonder  of  the  town.  It  was 
a  large  coal-scuttle  of  white  leghorn  and  at  the  back  there 
was  a  sort  of  flounce  of  ribbon  which  she  called  her  "  bon- 
net-cape " ;  draped  over  it  she  wore  a  great,  bright-green 
barege  veil.  But  she  was  not  half  so  funny  as  was  her 
husband  on  the  street.  His  short  little  person  buttoned 
up  tightly  in  a  regular  bottle-green  "  Mantellini "  sort  of 
overcoat,  loaded  with  frogs  of  heavy  cord,  and  lined, 
cuffed,  and  collared  with  fur  of  such  remarkable  color, 
quality,  and  marking  as  would  have  puzzled  the  most 
experienced  student  of  natural  history  to  name;  while 
vicious  little  street  boys  at  sight  of  it  always  put  search- 
ing questions  as  to  the  cost  of  cat-skins  in  London. 

As  they  came  down  the  street  together,  Mrs.  Kean, 
majestically  towering  above  her  lord  and  master,  looked 
like  an  old-time  frigate  with  every  inch  of  canvas  spread, 
while  at  her  side  Charles  puffed  and  fretted  like  a  small 
tug.  The  street  boys  were  a  continual  torment  to  him, 
but  Mrs.  Kean  appeared  serenely  unconscious  of  their 


166  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

existence,  even  when  her  husband  made  short  rushes  at 
them  with  his  gold-headed  cane,  and  crying :    "  Go  a-way 

—  you  irreverent  little  brutes  —  go  a-way !  "  and  then 
puffed    laboriously    back    to    her    again    as    she    sailed 
calmly  on. 

One  day  a  citizen  caught  one  of  the  small  savages, 
and  after  boxing  his  ears  soundly,  pitched  him  into  the 
alley-way,  when  the  seemingly  enraged  little  Englishman 
said,  deprecatingly :  "I  —  I  wouldn't  hurt  the  little 
beast  —  he  —  he  hasn't  anyone  to  teach  him  any  better, 
you  know  —  poor  little  beggar !  "  and  then  he  dropped 
behind  for  a  moment  to  pitch  a  handful  of  coppers  into 
the  alley  before  hurrying  up  to  his  wife's  side  to  boast  of 
the  jolly  good  drubbing  the  little  monster  had  received 

—  from  which  I  gathered  the  idea  that  in  a  rage  Charles 
^would  be  as  fierce  as  seething  new  milk. 

"^Everyone  who  knew  anything  at  all  of  this  actor  knew 
of  his  passionate  love  and  reverence  for  his  great  father. 
He  used  always  to  carry  his  miniature  in  Hamlet,  using 
it  in  the  "  Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  then  on  this  " 
ene ;  but  I  knew  nothing  of  all  that  when  he  first  ar- 
to  play  engagements  both  in  Cleveland  and  Colum- 
bus, but  being  very  eager  to  see  all  I  could  of  him,  I 
came  very  early  to  the  theatre,  and  as  I  walked  up  and 
down  behind  the  scenes  I  caught  two  or  three  times  a 
glint  of  something  on  the  floor,  which  might  have  been 
a  bit  of  tinsel;  but  finally  I  went  over  to  it,  touched  it 
with  my  foot,  and  then  picked  up  an  oval  gold  case,  with 
handsome  frame  enclosing  a  picture;  a  bit  of  broken 
ribbon  still  hung  from  the  ring  on  top  of  the  frame.  I 
ran  with  it  to  the  prompter,  who  knew  nothing  of  it,  but 
said  there  would  soon  be  a  hue  and  cry  for  it  from  some- 
one, as  it  was  of  value.  "  Perhaps  you'd  better  take  it 
to  Mr.  Kean  —  it  might  be  his."  I  hesitated,  but  the 
prompter  said  he  was  busy  and  I  was  not,  so  I  started 
toward  the  dressing-room  the  Keans  shared  together, 
when  suddenly  the  door  was  flung  open  and  Mr.  Kean 
came  out  in  evident  excitement.  He  bumped  against  me 


MR.  KEAN'S  LOCKET  167 

as  he  was  crying :   "  I  say  there  —  you  —  have  you  seen 

—  oh,  I  —  er  beg  your  pardon !  " 

I  also  apologized,  and  added :  "  If  you  please,  sir,  does 
this  belong  to  you  ?  I  found  it  behind  the  scenes." 

He  caught  it  from  my  hand,  bent  to  look  at  it  in  the 
dim  light,  then,  pressing  it  to  his  lips,  exclaimed  fer- 
vently: "  Thank  the  good  God!  "  He  held  up  a  length 
of  broken  black  ribbon,  saying :  "  Hey,  but  you  have 
played  me  a  nice  trick !  "  I  understood  at  once  that  he 
used  the  locket  in  "  Hamlet,"  and  I  ventured :  "  If  you 
can't  wear  gold  and  your  ribbon  cuts,  could  you  not  have  a 
silver  chain  oxidized  for  your  '  property  '  picture,  sir  ?  " 
He  chucked  me  under  the  chin,  exclaiming :  "  A  good 
idea  that  —  I  —  I'll  tell  Ellen  of  that ;  but,  my  dear,  this 
is  no  *  property '  locket  —  this  is  one  of  my  greatest 
earthly  treasures  —  it's  the  picture  of " 

He  stopped  —  he  looked  at  me  for  quite  a  moment, 
then  he  said :  "  You  come  here  to  the  light."  I  followed 
him  obediently.  "  Now  can  you  tell  me  who  that  is  a 
miniature  of?  "  and  he  placed  the  oval  case  in  my  hands. 
I  gave  a  glance  at  the  curled  hair,  the  beautiful  profile, 
the  broad  turned-down  collar,  and  smilingly  exclaimed: 
"It's  Lord  Byron!" 

Good  gracious,  what  was  the  matter  with  the  little  old 
gentleman !  "  Ha !  ha !  "  he  cried.  "  Ha !  ha !  listen  to 
the  girl !  "  He  fairly  pranced  about ;  he  got  clear  out 
on  the  dark  stage  and,  holding  out  his  hands  to  the  empti- 
ness, cried  again :  "  Listen  to  the  girl  —  Lord  Byron, 
says  she  —  at  one  glance !  " 

"Well,"  I  replied  resentfully,  "it  does  look  like 
Byron !  "  And  he  "  Ha !  ha'd !  "  some  more,  and  wiped 
his  eyes  and  said,  "  I  must  tell  Ellen  this.  Come  here, 
my  dear,  come  here ! "  He  took  my  hand  and  led  me 
to  the  dressing-room,  crying :  "  It's  Charles,  my  dear  — 
it's  Charles  —  and  oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I  —  I  have  it 

—  see  now !  "  he  held  up  the  locket. 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am !  And  now,  Charles,  perhaps 
you'll  give  up  that  miserable  ribbon,"  and  she  kissed  his 
cheek  in  congratulation. 


i68  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

But  on  the  old  gentleman  went :   "  And,   Ellen,   my 
dear,  look  at  this  girl  here  —  just  look  at  her.    She  found 
him  for  me,  and  I  said,  who  is  he  —  and  she  up  and  said  — 
Ellen,  are  you  listening?  —  said  she,  '  It's  Lord  Byron ! ' : 

"  Did  she  now  ? ''  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kean,  with  pleased 
eyes. 

But  I  was  getting  mad,  and  I  snapped  a  bit,  I'm  afraid, 
when  I  said :  "  Well,  I  don't  know  who  it  is,  but  it  does 
look  like  Byron  —  I'll  leave  it  to  anyone  in  the  company 
if  it  doesn't!" 

"  Listen  to  her,  Ellen !  Hang  me  if  she's  not  getting 
hot  about  it,  too !  "  Then  he  came  over  to  me,  and  in  the 
gravest,  gentlest  tone  said,  "  It  is  like  Byron,  my  girl, 
but  it  is  not  him  —  you  found  the  picture  of  my  beloved 
and  great  father,  Edmund  Kean,"  and  he  kissed  me  gently 
on  the  forehead,  and  said,  "  Thank  you  —  thank  you !  " 
and  as  Mrs.  Kean  came  over  and  put  her  arm  about  me 
and  repeated  the  kiss  and  thanks,  Charles  snuffled  most 
distinctly  from  the  corner  where  he  was  folding  his 
precious  miniature  within  a  silk  handkerchief. 

They  were  both  at  their  very  best  in  the  tragedy  of 
"  Henry  VIII."  Mr.  Kean's  Wolsey  was  an  impressive 
piece  of  work,  and  to  the  eye  he  was  as  true  a  Cardinal 
as  ever  shared  in  an  Ecumenical  Council  in  Catholic 
Rome,  or  hastened  to  private  audience  at  the  Vatican 
with  the  Pope  himself ;  and  his  superb  robes,  his  priestly 
splendor  had  nothing  about  them  that  was  imitation. 
Everything  was  real  —  the  silks,  the  jewelled  cross  and 
ring,  and  as  to  the  lace,  I  gasped  for  breath  with  sheer 
astonishment.  Never  had  I  seen,  even  in  a  picture,  any- 
thing to  suggest  the  exquisite  beauty  of  that  ancient  web. 
Full  thirty  inches  deep,  the  yellowing  wonder  fell  over 
the  glowing  cardinal-red  beneath  it.  I  cannot  remember 
how  many  thousands  of  dollars  they  had  gladly  given 
for  it  to  the  sisters  of  the  tottering  old  convent  in  the 
hills,  where  it  had  been  created  long  ago ;  and  though  it 
seemed  so  fragily  frail  and  useless  a  thing,  yet  had  it 
proved  strong  enough  to  prop  up  the  leaning  walls  of 


MRS.  KEAN'S   CATHERINE          169 

its  old  home,  and  spread  a  sound  roof  above  the  blessed 
altar  there  —  so  strong  sometimes  is  beauty's  weakness. 
And  Mrs.  Kean,  what  a  Catherine  she  was!  Surely 
nothing  could  have  been  taken  from  the  part,  nothing 
added  to  it,  without  marring  its  perfection.  In  the  earlier 
acts  one  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  Ellen  Tree 
who  had  been  a  beauty  as  well  as  a  popular  actress  when 
Charles  Kean  had  come  a-wooing.  Her  clear,  strong 
features,  her  stately  bearing  were  beautifully  suited  to 
the  part  of  Queen  Catherine.  Her  performance  of  the 
court  scene  was  a  liberal  education  for  any  young  actress. 
Her  regal  dignity,  her  pride,  her  passion  of  hatred  for 
Wolsey  held  in  strong  leash,  yet  now  and  again  spring- 
ing up  fiercely.  Her  address  to  the  King  was  a  delight 
to  the  ear,  even  while  it  moved  one  to  the  heart,  and 
through  the  deep  humility  of  her  speech  one  saw,  as 
through  a  veil,  the  stupendous  pride  of  the  Spanish  prin- 
cess, who  knew  herself  the  daughter  of  a  king,  if  she 
were  not  the  wife  to  one.  With  most  pathetic  dignity 
she  gave  her  speech  beginning: 

"  Sir,  I  desire  you  do  me  right  and  justice  ; " 

maintaining  perfect  self-control,  until  she  came  to  the 
words : 

" Sir,  call  to  mind 

That  I  have  been  your  wife  in  this  obedience 
Upward  of  twenty  years  and, " 

Her  voice  faltered,  the  words  trembled  on  her  lips : 

" have  been  blest 

With  many  children  by  you. " 

In  that  painful  pause  one  remembered  with  a  pang  that 
all  those  babes  were  dead  in  infancy,  save  only  the  Prin- 
cess Mary.  Then,  controlling  her  emotion  and  lifting  her 
head  high,  she  went  on  to  the  challenge  —  if  aught  could 


170  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

be  reported  against  her  honor.  It  was  a  great  act,  her 
passionate  cry  to  Wolsey: 

" Lord  cardinal, 

To  you  I  speak." 

thrilled  the  audience,  while  to  his: 

" Be  patient  yet," 

her  sarcastic: 

"  I  will,  when  you  are  humble  ! " 

cut  like  a  knife,  and  brought  quick  applause.  But  best, 
greatest,  queenliest  of  all  was  her  exit,  when  refusing  to 
obey  the  King's  command: 

" Call  her  again." 


for  years  one  might  remember  those  ringing  words : 

"  I  will  not  tarry :  no,  nor  ever  more, 
Upon  this  business,  my  appearance  make 
In  any  of  their  courts." 

It  was  a  noble  performance.  Mr.  Kean's  mannerisms 
were  less  noticeable  in  Wolsey  than  in  other  parts,  and 
the  scenes  between  the  Queen  and  Cardinal  were  a  joy 
to  lovers  of  Shakespeare. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-SECOND 

I  Hear  Mrs.  Kean's  Story  of  Wolsey's  Robe  —  I  Laugh  at 
an  Extravagantly  Kind  Prophecy. 

FROM  the  time  I  found  the  miniature  and  by  acci- 
dent fed  Mr.  Kean's  innocent  vanity  in  his  father's 
likeness  to  Byron,  he  made  much  of  me.  Evening 
after  evening,  in  Columbus,  he  would  have  me  come  to 
their  dressing-room,  for  after  the  habit  of  the  old-time 
actor,  they  came  very  early,  dressed  without  flurry,  and 
were  ready  before  the  overture  was  .on.  There  they 
would  tell  me  stories,  and  when  Charles  had  a  teasing  fit 
on  him,  he  would  relate  with  great  gusto  the  awful  dis- 
aster that  once  overtook  Ellen  in  a  theatre  in  Scotland, 
l<  when  she  played  a  Swiss  boy,  my  girl  —  and  —  and 
her  breeches " 

"  Now,  Charles !  "  remonstrated  Mrs.  Kean. 

"  Knee  breeches,  you  know,  my  dear " 

"  Charles !  "  pleadingly. 

"  Were  of  black  velvet  —  yes,  black  velvet,  I  remem- 
ber because,  when  they  broke  from " 

"  C-h-a-r-1-e-s !  "  and  then  the  stately  Mrs.  Kean  would 
turn  her  head  away  and  give  a  small  sob  —  when  Charles 
would  wink  a  knowing  wink  and  trot  over  and  pat  the 
broad  shoulder  and  kiss  the  rouged  cheek,  saying: 
"  Why,  why,  Ellen,  my  dear,  what  a  great  baby !  now, 
now,  but  you  know  those  black  breeches  did  break  up 
before  you  got  across  the  bridge." 

Then  Mrs.  Kean  turned  and  drove  him  into  his  own 
corner  or  out  of  the  door,  after  which  she  would  exclaim : 
"  It's  just  one  of  his  larks,  my  dear.  I  did  have  an  acci- 
dent, the  seam  of  one  leg  of  my  breeches  broke  and 
showed  the  white  lining  a  bit;  but  if  you'll  believe  me, 

171 


172  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

I've  known  that  man  to  declare  that  —  that  —  they  fell 
off,  my  dear;  but  generally  that's  on  Christmas  or  his 
birthday,  when  only  friends  are  by." 

Mr.  Kean  had  been  the  first  man  to  wear  an  absolutely 
correct  cardinal's  robe  on  the  stage,  and  very  proud  he 
was  of  that  fact,  and  never  failed  in  giving  his  Ellen 
all  the  credit  of  it.  Until  this  time  actors  had  worn  a 
scarlet  "  something,"  that  seemed  a  cross  between  a 
king's  mantle  or  a  woman's  wrapper.  Mr.  Kean  had 
been  quite  carried  away  with  enthusiasm  over  his  com- 
ing production  of  "  Henry  VIII.,"  and  his  wife,  seeing 
his  disappointment  and  dissatisfaction  over  the  costumer's 
best  efforts  in  the  direction  of  a  cardinal's  robe,  deter- 
mined, some  way  or  somehow,  to  obtain  for  him  an 
exact  copy  of  the  genuine  article. 

One  night,  while  "  Louis  XI."  was  going  on,  Mrs. 
Kean  herself  told  me  how  she  had  at  last  succeeded. 
They  were  in  Rome  for  their  holiday;  they  had  many 
letters,  some  to  very  important  personages.  In  her  story 
Mrs.  Kean  gave  names  and  dates  and  amounts  of  money 
expended,  but  they  have  passed  from  my  memory,  while 
the  dramatic  incident  remains. 

From  the  first  she  had  made  known  to  her  most  pow- 
erful Roman  friend  her  desire  to  see  the  robe  of  a  car- 
dinal—  to  obtain  measurements  from  it,  and  had  been 
treated  at  first  to  a  great  showing  of  uplifted  hands  and 
eyes  and  many  "  impossibles,"  but  later  on  had  received 
positive  promises  of  help.  Yet  days,  even  weeks  passed, 
and  always  there  was  some  excuse  —  nothing  came  of 
the  fine  promises. 

One  day,  in  her  anxiety  and  disappointment,  she  men- 
tioned to  an  English  friend,  who  had  long  resided  in 
Rome,  her  trouble  over  the  procrastination  of  her  Italian 
acquaintance,  when  the  Englishwoman  asked :  "  What 
have  you  paid  him?"  "Paid  him?"  cried  Mrs.  Kean. 

"  Do  you  know  you  are  speaking  of  F ,  whose  high 

official  as  well  as  social  position  is  such— 

"  Oh,"  laughed  the  visitor,  "  his  position  has  nothing 


COPYING  A  CARDINAL'S  ROBE     173 

to  do  with  it  —  his  being  your  friend  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  The  Italian  palm  is  an  itching  palm  —  no  won- 
der time  is  being  wasted.  Soothe  that  palm  the  next  time 
he  calls,  and  mention  the  day  on  which  you  are  com- 
pelled to  leave  for  home,  and  he  will  act  quickly  enough, 
though  you  really  are  asking  for  next  to  an  impossibility, 
when  you,  a  woman,  ask  to  see  and  handle  a  cardinal's 
robe."" 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  "  cried  Mrs.  Kean,  "  when  that  stately, 
gray-haired  gentleman  next  came,  I  almost  fainted  at 
the  thought  of  putting  such  an  insult  upon  him  as  to  offer 
him  money.  Indeed  I  could  barely  whisper,  when  clasp- 
ing his  hand  I  left  some  broad  gold  pieces  there,  mur- 
muring, *  For  the  poor,  sir ! '  —  and  if  you'll  believe  me, 
he  brightened  up  and  instantly  said :  '  Keep  to  the  house 
to-morrow,  Madame,  and  I  will  notify  you  what  you  are 
to  do,  and  the  effort  to  get  a  robe  to  you  here  having 
failed,  you  will  have  to  come  to  the  general  "  audience  " 
his  Holiness  will  grant  day  after  to-morrow,  and,  and, 
hem!  you  will  do  well  to  have  some  loose  lire  in  your 
pouch,  and  be  sure,  sure,  you  carry  a  smelling-bottle.  I 
suppose,  of  course,  so  famous  an  actress  as  yourself  can 
faint  at  command,  if  need  be?  Then  the  tailor,  an  usher 
or  two,  possibly  even  a  guard  may  require  a  fee,  for  they 
will  run  great  risk  in  serving  you,  Madame.  A  woman 
within  those  sacred  passages  and  chambers ! ' 

"  He  held  up  his  hands  in  horror,  but  nevertheless  he 
was  doing  directly  what  he  had  been  promising  to  do 
for  weeks,  and  all  for  a  few  broad  pieces  of  gold.  After 
he  left  me  I  was  fairly  sick  with  feverish  excitement. 
I  dared  not  tell  Charles  of  the  arrangement;  he  would 
have  left  Rome  instantly,  and  here  was  I  preparing  to 
bribe  tailor,  ushers,  guard  —  and  beyond  them,  to  be  still 
armed  with  loose  lire.  Oh,  to  what  depth  was  I  falling! 

"  Next  day  I  received  a  card  of  admission  for  the 
'  audience/  and  orders :  '  To  keep  my  eyes  open  —  to 
show  no  surprise,  but  to  follow  silently  wherever  a  hand 
beckoned  with  a  single  finger.  To  bring  all  things  need- 


174  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

ful  for  my  use  —  not  forgetting  the  loose  lire  and  the 
smelling-bottle/ 

"  When  I  entered  the  carriage  to  go  to  the  Vatican,  I 
was  so  weak  with  hope  and  fear  and  fright  that  Charles 
was  quite  upset  about  me,  and  was  all  for  going  with 
me ;  so  I  had  to  brace  up  and  pretend  the  air  was  already 
doing  me  good.  As  I  looked  back  at  him,,  I  wondered 
if  he  would  divorce  me,  if  in  my  effort  to  secure  the 
pattern  of  a  cardinal's  gown  I  should  create  a  tre- 
mendous scandal?  I  wore  the  regulation  black  silk,  with 
black  veil,  demanded  for  the  occasion,  but  besides  the  lit- 
tle pouch  of  silk  depending  from  my  belt  with  lire,  salts, 
and  'kerchief,  I  had  beneath  my  gown  a  pocket  in  which 
were  some  white  Swiss  muslin,  pins,  pencil,  and  tablets, 
and  small  scissors. 

"  There  were  many  carriages  —  many  people.  I  saw 
them  all  as  in  a  dream.  In  a  magnificent  room  the  ladies 
were  formed  in  line,  waiting  to  be  admitted  to  the  Holy 
Father's  presence.  I  was  forgetting  to  keep  my  eyes  open 
—  there  was  a  stir.  A  great  door  was  opening  down  its 
centre.  I  heard  a  faint,  low  '  Hem ! '  The  line  began  to 
move  forward  —  a  little  louder  that  '  Hem ! '  Suddenly 
my  eyes  cleared  —  I  looked.  A  pair  of  curtains,  a  little 
ahead,  trembled.  I  drew  my  smelling-bottle  and  held  it 
to  my  nostrils,  as  if  ill,  but  no  one  noticed  me  —  all  were 
intent  upon  the  opening  of  the  great  door.  As  I  came 
on  a  line  with  the  curtains,  a  hand,  dream-like,  beckoned. 
I  stepped  sidewise  between  the  curtains,  that  parted,  then 
fell  thick  and  soft  behind  me.  Another  white  beckoning 
hand  appeared  at  the  far  side  of  this  chamber.  Swiftly 
I  crossed  toward  it.  A  whisper  of  '  Quick!  quick! '  just 
reached  me  —  a  door  opened,  and  I  was  in  a  passage-way, 
and  for  the  first  time  saw  a  guide. 

"  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  paused  —  yet  the  voice 
had  said  '  Quick !  quick ! '  I  thought  of  the  loose  lire  — 
yes,  that  was  it.  I  gave  him  three,  and  saw  him  glide 
up  the  stairs  with  cat-like  stealth.  Here  were  bare  walls 
and  floors,  and  all  that  cold  cleanliness  that  makes  a 
woman  shrink  and  shiver. 


CONSULTING   THE   MODEL        175 

"  At  last  I  was  in  a  small,  bare  room,  with  brick-paved 
floor.  A  table  stood  in  its  centre,  and  a  small  and  wizened 
man,  red-eyed  and  old,  glided  in  and  laid  upon  the  table 
—  oh,  joy  —  oh,  triumph  almost  reached !  —  a  glowing- 
red  cardinal's  robe.  As  I  laid  my  hand  upon  it  the  ferret- 
like  custodian  gave  a  sort  of  whispered  groan,  *  Oh,  the 
sacrilege!  and  the  danger!  his  whole  life's  occupation 
risked ! ' 

"  I  remembered  the  '  itching  palm/  and  as  my  hand  went 
toward  my  pocket,  his  brown  claw  was  extended,  and  the 
glint  of  gold  so  warmed  his  heart  that  smiles  came  about 
his  toothless  mouth,  and  seeing  me,  woman  fashion, 
measuring  by  finger-lengths,  he  offered  me  a  dirty  old 
tape-measure  —  then  stole  to  the  second  door  '  to  watch 
for  me.'  Oh,  yes  —  to  watch  like  the  cat  —  while  with 
all  the  haste  possible  the  good  and  most  high  lady  would 
gain  such  knowledge  as  she  could,  and  after  all  the  robe 
was  but  an  old  one,  etc.,  etc. 

"  All  whispered,  while  I  with  the  deft  fingers  of  a 
skilled  seamstress  and  the  comprehending  eye  of  the 
actress,  well  used  to  strange  costumes,  was  measuring 
here  and  putting  down  notes,  swiftly  pinning  on  a  bit  of 
muslin  there,  and  cutting  an  exact  pattern.  And,  lo !  the 
piece  that  crosses  the  chest,  cape-like,  yet  without  visible 
opening,  came  near  undoing  me.  Tears  began  to  blind 
me,  but  —  but,  ah  well,  my  dear,  I  thought  of  Charles, 
and  it  is  astonishing  what  love  can  do  to  sharpen  the  eyes 
and  clear  the  brain.  Suddenly  the  thing  seemed  quite 
plain  to  me.  I  then  turned  the  hem,  and  ripping  it  open 
an  inch  or  so,  I  took  a  few  ravellings  of  the  silk,  where 
it  was  clean  and  bright,  for  a  sample  for  the  dyers  to  go 
by  —  since  the  silk  would  have  to  be  prepared  especially 
if  it  was  to  be  absolutely  correct. 

"  I  rearranged  my  veil,  crept  to  the  door,  and  agree- 
ably surprised  the  watchers  by  telling  them  I  was  through. 
The  ferrety  old  man  had  the  robe  in  his  arms,  and  was 
gliding  swiftly  out  of  the  room  in  the  merest  instant.  I 
followed  as  softly  as  possible  the  other  watcher.  Once 


176  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

an  unseen  man  cleared  his  throat  as  we  passed,  and  I 
thought  my  guide  would  have  fallen  from  sheer  terror, 
but  we  reached  in  safety  the  frescoed  corridor  again  and 
stood  at  the  door  waiting.  The  guide  scratched  gently 
with  his  nails  on  the  lower  panel  —  a  pause,  then  the 
door  began  to  move,  and  he  disappeared  as  a  ghost  might 
have  done.  Across  the  room  a  hand  appeared  between 
the  hangings,  beckoning  me;  I  moved  swiftly  toward  it. 
I  could  hear  a  hum  of  voices,  low  and  restrained.  There 
was  but  one  room  now  between  me  and  the  great  cham- 
ber in  which  we  had  waited  in  line  for  '  audience/  No 
further  signal  came,  what  should  I  do?  I  was  nearly 
fainting.  Then  another  hand,  a  hand  I  knew  by  the 
splendid  ring  on  its  middle  finger,  appeared.  I  almost 
staggered  to  it.  A  whisper  like  a  breath  came  to  me, 
'  smelling-salts/  in  an  instant  the  bottle  was  in  my  hand, 
I  was  through  the  curtains,  my  Italian  friend  was  asking 
me,  was  I  not  wrong  to  remain  in  Rome  so  late?  He 
hoped  my  faintness  was  quite  past,  but  he  must  himself 
see  me  to  my  carriage,  and  so  he  swept  me  forth,  under 
cover  of  his  courteous  chatter,  and  the  next  day  I  sent 
him  money  for  those  who  had  to  be  rewarded. 

"  And  for  fear  of  Charles's  rage  about  the  infamy  of 
bribing,  said  nothing,  till  he,  in  great  anxiety  about  my 
feverish  state,  removed  me  from  Rome.  And  then,  my 
dear!  I  threw  my  arms  about  his  neck  and  told  him  he 
should  have  a  true  and  veritable  cardinal's  robe  for  his 
Wolsey,  and  in  outrageous  pride  I  cried :  '  Ego  hoc 
'fed!  "  At  which  /  gravely  said :  "  That  sounds  like  '  I 
have  done  something/  anyway  it's  I;  but  that  'fetchy' 
word  bothers  me." 

And  she  laughed  and  laughed,  and  said :  "  It  means 
7  did  this !  And  I  am  ashamed  to  have  used  a  Latin  term 
to  you,  child.  You  must  forgive  me  for  it,  but  I  must 
tell  Charles  that  '  fetchy '  word  that  bothered  you  — I 
must  indeed,  because  he  does  so  love  his  laugh !  " 

Then  came  the  night  when  by  chance  I  played  an  im- 
portant part  in  one  of  their  plays.  My  scenes  were  mostly 


MR.  KEAN   TALKS   TO   ME         177 

with  Mr.  Cathcart,  and  I  only  came  in  contact  with  Mr. 
Kean  for  a  moment  in  one  act.  I  was  as  usual  fright- 
ened half  out  of  my  life,  and  as  I  stood  in  the  entrance 
ready  to  go  on,  Mr.  Kean  smilingly  caught  my  fingers 
as  he  was  passing  me,  but  their  icy  coldness  brought  him 
to  a  stand-still.  "  Why,  why !  bless  my  soul,  what's  the 
matter  ?  this  —  this  is  not  nervousness,  is  it  ?  "  he  stam- 
mered. 

I  nodded  my  head.  "  Oh,  good  Lord !  "  he  cried.  "  I 
say,  Cathcart,  here's  a  go  —  this  poor  child  can't  even 
open  her  mouth  now " 

I  tried  to  tell  him  I  should  be  all  right  soon,  but  there 
was  no  time.  The  word  of  entrance  came,  and  a  cue  takes 
the  pas  even  in  presence  of  a  star.  I  went  on,  and  as  my 
lines  were  delivered  clearly  and  distinctly,  I  saw  the  re- 
lieved face  of  Mr.  Kean  peering  at  us,  and  when  Mr. 
Cathcart  (who  enacted  my  soldierly  lover)  gave  me  a 
sounding  kiss  upon  the  cheek  as  he  embraced  me  in  fare- 
well, we  plainly  heard  the  old  gentleman  exclaim :  "  Well, 
well,  really  now,  James,  upon  my  word,  you  are  coming 
on !  "  and  Mr.  Cathcart's  broad  shoulders  shook  with 
laughter  rather  than  grief  as  he  rushed  from  me. 

When,  later  on,  Mr.  Kean  took  my  hand  to  give  it  in 
betrothal  to  my  lover,  he  found  it  so  burning  hot  as  to 
attract  his  attention. 

Next  night  I  did  not  play  at  all,  but  came  to  look  on, 
and  being  invited  to  the  dressing-room,  Mr.  Kean  sud- 
denly asked  me :  "  Who  are  you,  child  ?  " 

"  No  one,"  I  promptly  answered. 

He  laughed  a  little  and  nudged  his  Ellen,  then  went 
on :  "I  mean  —  who  are  your  people  ?  " 

"  I  have  none,"  I  said,  then  quickly  corrected,  "  except 
my  mother." 

"  Ah,  yes,  yes,  that's  what  we  want  to  get  at  —  who 
is  that  mother?  for  I  recognize  an  inherited  talent  here 
—  a  natural  grace  and  ease,  impossible  for  one  so  young 
to  acquire  by  any  amount  of  effort." 

I  was  a  bit  confused  —  I  hesitated.  Mrs.  Kean  asked : 
"  Were  both  of  your  parents  actors,  child  ?  " 


178  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

Suddenly  I  broke  into  laughter.     The  thought  of  my 

mother  as  an  actress  filled  me  with  amusement.     "  Oh, 

I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  cried,  "  I  have  no  father,  and  my 

_  mother  just  works  at  sewing  or  nursing  or  housekeeping 

•    or  anything  she  can  get  to  do  that's  honest." 

They  looked  disappointedly  at  each  other,  then  Mrs. 
Kean  brightened  up  and  exclaimed :  "  Then  it's  foreign 
blood,  Charles  —  you  can  see  it  in  her  use  of  her  hands." 

They  turned  expectantly  to  me.  I  thought  of  the  big, 
smiling  French-Canadian  father,  who  had  been  the  bete 
noire  of  my  babyhood.  My  head  drooped.  "  He,  my 
father,  was  bad,"  I  said,  "  his  father  and  mother  were 
from  the  south  of  France,  but  he  was  a  horrid  Canadian 
—  my  mother,  though,  is  a  true  American,"  I  proudly 
ended. 

"That's  it!"  they  exclaimed  together,  "the  French 
blood !  "  and  Mr.  Kean  nodded  his  head  and  tapped  his 
brow  and  said :  "  You  remember,  Ellen,  what  I  told  you 
last  night  —  I  said  '  temperament '  —  here  it  is  in  this 
small  nobody;  no  offence  to  you,  my  girl.  Here's  our 
dear  niece,  who  can't  act  at  all,  God  bless  her!  our 
'  blood,'  but  no  temperament.  Now  listen  to  me,  you 
bright  child !  " 

He  pushed  my  hair  back  from  my  forehead,  so  that  I 
must  have  looked  quite  wild,  and  went  on :  "I  have  seen 
you  watch  that  dear  woman  over  there,  night  after  night ; 
you  admire  her,  I  know."  (I  nodded  hard.)  "  You  think 
her  a  great,  great  way  from  you?  "  (More  nods.)  "  A 
f  lifetime  almost?"  (Another  nod.)  "Then  listen  to 
what  an  old  man,  but  a  most  experienced  actor,  prophe- 
sies for  you.  Without  interest  in  high  places,  without 
help  from  anyone,  except  from  the  Great  Helper  of  us 
all,  you,  little  girl,  daughter  of  the  true  American  mother 
and  the  bad  French  father,  will,  inside  of  five  years,  be 
acting  my  wife's  parts  —  and  acting  them  well." 

I  could  not  help  it,  it  seemed  so  utterly  absurd,  I  laughed 
aloud.  He  smiled  indulgently,  and  said :  "  It  seems  so 
funny  —  does  it  ?  Wait  a  bit,  my  dear,  when  my  proph- 


MR.  KEAN'S   PROPHECY  179 

ecy  comes  true  you  will  no  longer  laugh,  and  you  will 
remember  us." 

He  gave  me  his  hand  in  farewell,  so  did  his  gracious 
wife,  then  with  tears  in  my  eyes  I  said :  "  I  was  only 
laughing  at  my  own  insignificance,  sir,  and  I  shall  re- 
member your  kindness  always,  whether  I  succeed  or  not, 
just  as  I  shall  remember  your  great  acting." 

Simultaneously  they  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  I 
left  them.  Then  Mr.  Kean  put  his  arm  about  his  wife 
and  kissed  her,  I  know  he  did,  because  I  looked  back  and 
saw  them  thus  reflected  in  the  looking-glass.  But  did 
I  not  say  they  were  love-birds? 

Four  years  from  that  month  I  stood  trembling  and 
happy  before  the  audience  who  generously  applauded  my 
"  sleep-walking  scene  "  in  "  Macbeth."  and  suddenly  I 
seemed  to  hear  the  kind  old  voice  making  the  astonishing 
prophecy,  and  joyed  to  think  of  its  fulfilment,  with  a 
whole  year  to  the  good. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-THIRD 

Mr.  E.  L.  Davenport,  his  Interference,  his  Lecture  on 
Stage  Business,  his  Error  of  Memory  or  too  Powerful 
Imagination  — Why  I  Remain  a  Dramatic  Old  Slipper  — 
Contemptuous  Words  Arouse  in  Me  a  Dogged  Deter- 
mination to  Become  a  Leading  Woman  before  Leaving 
Cleveland. 

JUST  what  was  the  occult  power  of  the  ballet  over 
the  manager's  mind  no  one  ever  explained  to  me.  I 
found  my  companions  very  every-day,  good-natured, 
kind-hearted  girls  —  pretty  to  look  at,  pleasant  to  be 
with,  but  to  Mr.  Ellsler  they  must  have  been  a  rare  and 
radiant  lot,  utterly  unmatchable  in  this  world,  or  else  he 
knew  they  had  awful  powers  for  evil  and  dared  not  pro- 
voke their  "  hoodoo."  Whatever  the  reason,  the  fact  re- 
mained, he  was  afraid  to  advance  me  one  little  step  in 
name,  even  to  utility  woman ;  while,  in  fact,  I  was  ad- 
vanced to  playing  other  people's  parts  nearly  half  the  time, 
and  the  reason  for  this  continued  holding  back  was  "  fear 
of  offending  the  other  ballet-girls."  Truly  a  novel  posi- 
tion for  a  manager.  One  feels  at  once  there  must  have 
been  something  unusually  precious  about  such  a  ballet, 
and  he  feared  to  break  the  set.  Anyway,  before  I  got  out, 
clear  out,  this  happened : 

A  number  of  stars  had  spoken  to  me  about  my  folly 
in  remaining  in  the  ballet,  and  when  I  told  them  Mr. 
Ellsler  was  afraid  to  advance  me  for  fear  of  offending 
the  other  girls,  they  answered  variously,  and  many  ad- 
vised me  to  break  the  "  set  "  myself,  saying  if  I  left  he 
would  soon  be  after  me'and  glad  to  engage  me  for  first 
walking  lady.  But  my  crushed  childhood  had  its  effect, 

180 


MR.  E.  L.  DAVENPORT  181 

I  shall  always  lack  self-assertion  —  I  stayed  on  and  this 
happened. 

There  was  no  regular  heavy  actress  that  season,  and 
the  old  woman  was  a  tiny  little  rag  of  a  creature,  not 
bigger  than  a  doll.  Mr.  E.  L.  Davenport  was  to  open 
in  "  Othello."  Mrs.  Effie  Ellsler  was  to  play  the  young 
Desdemona  and  I  was  to  go  on  for  Emilia.  Mr.  Daven- 
port was  a  man  of  most  reckless  speech,  but  he  was,  too, 
an  old  friend  of  the  Ellslers,  calling  them  by  their  first 
names  and  meeting  them  with  hearty  greetings  and  many 
jests.  So,  when  in  the  middle  of  a  story  to  Mrs.  Ellsler  at 
rehearsal,  the  call  came  for  Othello,  Desdemona,  and 
lago,  she  exclaimed :  "  Excuse  me,  Ned,  they  are  call- 
ing us,"  but  he  held  her  sleeve  and  answered,  "  Not  you 
—  it's  me,"  and  glancing  hurriedly  about,  his  eye  met 
mine,  and  he  added  pleasantly,  "  You,  my  dear ;  they're 
calling  Desdemona." 

I  stood  still.  Mrs.  Ellsler's  round,  black  eyes  snapped, 
but  this  man  who  blundered  was  a  star  and  a  friend.  She 
tossed  her  head  and  petulantly  pushed  him  from  her  tow- 
ard the  stage.  He  went  on,  and  at  the  end  of  his  speech : 

"  This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  used  ; 
Here  comes  the  lady,  let  her  witness  it. " 

he  turned  to  face  Mrs.  Ellsler  entering  with  lago  and  her 
attendants.  Looking  utterly  bewildered,  he  exclaimed: 
"  Why,  for  God's  sake,  Effie,  you  are  not  going  on  for 
Desdemona,  are  you  ?  " 

Perhaps  his  dissatisfaction  may  be  better  understood 
if  I  mention  that  a  young  man  twenty-three  years  old, 
who  took  tickets  at  the  dress-circle  door,  called  Mrs.  Ells- 
ler mother,  and  that  middle-aged  prosperity  expressed 
itself  in  a  startling  number  of  inches  about  the  waist  of 
her  short  little  body.  Though  her  feet  and  hands  were 
small  in  the  extreme,  they  could  not  counteract  the  effect 
of  that  betraying  stodginess  of  figure.  Mrs.  Ellsler,  in 
answer  to  that  rude  question,  laughed,  and  said :  "  Well, 


i82  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

I  believe  the  leading  woman  generally  does  play  Des- 
demona?" 

"  But,"  cried  Mr.  Davenport,  "  where's  —  w-who's 
Emilia?  " 

Mr.  Ellsler  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  a  little 
to  one  side.  Several  sharp  exclamations  escaped  the 
star's  lips,  and  at  last,  aloud  and  ending  the  conference, 
he  said :  "  Yes,  yes,  John,  I  know  anyone  may  have  to 
twist  about  a  bit  now  and  then  in  a  cast,  but  damn  me 
if  I  can  see  why  you  don't  cast  Effie  for  Emilia  and  this 
girl  for  Desdemona — then  they  would  at  least  look 
something  like  the  parts.  As  it  is  now,  they  are  both 
ridiculous !  " 

It  was  an  awful  speech,  and  the  truth  that  was  in  it 
made  it  cut  deep.  There  were  those  on  the  stage  who 
momentarily  expected  the  building  to  fall,  so  great  was 
their  awe  of  Mrs.  Ellsler.  The  odd  part  of  the  unpleasant 
affair  was  that  everyone  was  sorry  for  Mr.  Ellsler,  rather 
than  for  his  wife. 

Well,  night  came.  I  trailed  about  after  Desdemona  — 
picked  up  the  fatal  handkerchief  —  spoke  a  line  here  and 
there  as  Shakespeare  wills  she  should,  and  bided  my  time 
as  all  Emilias  must.  Now  I  had  noticed  that  many  Emilia? 
when  they  gave  the  alarm  —  cried  out  their  *'  Murder ! 
Murder !  "  against  all  the  noise  of  the  tolling  bells,  and 
came  back  upon  the  stage  spent,  and  without  voice  or 
breath  to  finish  their  big  scene  with,  and  people  thought 
them  weak  in  consequence.  A  long  hanging  bar  of  steel 
is  generally  used  for  the  alarm,  and  blows  struck  upon 
it  send  forth  a  vibrating  clangor  that  completely  fills  a 
theatre.  I  made  an  agreement  with  the  prompter  that  he 
was  not  to  strike  the  bar  until  I  held  up  my  hand  to  him. 
Then  he  was  to  strike  one  blow  each  time  I  raised  my 
hand,  and  when  I  threw  up  both  hands  he  was  to  raise 
Cain,  until  I  was  on  the  stage  again.  So  with  throat 
trained  by  much  shouting,  when  in  the  last  act  I  cried: 

"  I  care  not  for  thy  sword ;  I'll  make  thee  known, 
Though  I  lost  twenty  lives." 


A   SUCCESSFUL   TRICK  183 

I  turned,  and  crying : 

"Help  .'help,  ho!  help!" 
ran  off  shouting, 

"  The  Moor  has  killed  my  mistress  ! " 

then,  taking  breath,  gave  the  long-sustained,  ever-rising, 
blood-curdling  cry: 

"  Murder  !    Murder  !    Murder !  " 

One  hand  up,  and  one  long  clanging  peal  of  a  bell. 
"  Murder  !    Murder  !    Murder  ! " 

One  hand  up  and  bell. 

"  Murder !    Murder !    Murder ! " 

Both  hands  up,  and  pandemonium  broken  loose  —  and, 
oh,  joy!  the  audience  applauding  furiously. 

"  One  —  two  —  three  —  four,"  I  counted  with  closed 
lips,  then  with  a  fresh  breath  I  burst  upon  the  stage,  fol- 
lowed by  armed  men,  and  with  one  last  long  full-throated 
cry  of  "  Murder !  the  Moor  has  killed  my  mistress !  " 
stood  waiting  for  the  applause  to  let  me  go  on.  A  trick  ? 
yes,  a  small  trick  —  a  mere  pretence  to  more  breath  than 
I  really  had,  but  it  aroused  the  audience,  it  touched  their 
imagination.  They  saw  the  horror-stricken  woman  rac- 
ing through  the  night  —  waking  the  empty  streets  to  life 
by  that  ever-thrilling  cry  of  "  Murder !  "  A  trick  if  you 
like,  but  on  the  stage  "  success  "  justifies  the  means,  and 
that  night,  under  cover  of  the  applause  of  the  house, 
there  came  to  me  a  soft  clapping  of  hands  and  in  muffled 
tones  the  words :  "  Bravo  —  bravo !  "  from  Othello. 

When  the  curtain  had  fallen  and  Mr.  Davenport  had 


184  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

been  before  it,  he  came  to  me  and  holding  out  his  hands, 
said :  "  You  splendid-lunged  creature  — - 1  want  to  apolo- 
gize to  you  for  the  thoughts  I  harbored  against  you  this 
morning."  I  smiled  and  glanced  uneasily  at  the  clock  — 
he  went  on : 

"  I  have  always  fancied  my  wife  in  Emilia,  but,  my 
girl,  your  readings  are  absolutely  new  sometimes,  and 
your  strength  is  —  what's  the  matter  ?  a  farce  yet  ?  well, 
what  of  it  ?  you,  you  have  to  go  on  in  a  farce  after  play- 
ing Shakespeare's  Emilia  with  E.  L.  Davenport?  I'm 
damned  if  I  believe  you !  " 

And  I  gathered  up  my  cotton-velvet  gown  and  hur- 
ried to  my  room  to  don  calico  dress,  white  cap  and  apron, 
and  then  rush  down  to  the  "  property-room "  for  the 
perambulator  I  had  to  shove  on,  wondering  what  the  star 
would  think  if  he  knew  that  his  Emilia  was  merely  walk- 
ing on  in  the  farce  of  "  Jones's  Baby,"  without  one  line 
to  speak,  the  second  and  speaking  nursemaid  having  very 
justly  been  given  to  one  of  the  other  girls.  But  the  need- 
less sending  of  me  on,  right  after  the  noble  part  of 
Emilia,  was  evidently  a  sop  thrown  by  my  boldly  inde- 
pendent manager  to  his  ballet  —  Cerberus. 

Heretofore  stars  had  advised  or  chided  me  privately, 
but,  oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!  next  morning  Mr.  Davenport 
attacked  Mr.  Ellsler  for  "  mismanagement,"  as  he  termed 
it,  right  before  everybody.  Among  other  things,  he  de- 
clared that  it  was  a  wound  to  his  personal  dignity  as  a 
star  to  have  a  girl  who  had  supported  him,  "  not  ac- 
ceptably, but  brilliantly,"  in  a  Shakespearian  tragedy,  sent 
on  afterward  in  a  vulgar  farce.  Then  he  added :  "  Aside 
from  artistic  reasons  and  from  justice  to  her  —  good 
Lord!  John,  are  you  such  a  fool  you  don't  understand 
her  commercial  value  ?  Here  you  have  a  girl,  young  and 
pretty  "  (always  make  allowances  for  the  warmth  of  ar- 
gument), "with  rare  gifts  and  qualifications,  who  han- 
dles her  audience  like  a  magician,  and  you  cheapen  her 
like  this?  Placing  her  in  the  highest  position  only  to 
cast  her  down  again  to  the  lowest.  If  she  is  only  fit  for 


MR.  DAVENPORT  CHAMPIONS  ME      185 

the  ballet,  you  insult  your  public  by  offering  her  in  a 
leading  part ;  if  she's  fit  for  the  leading  part,  you  insult 
her  by  lowering  her  to  the  ballet ;  but  anyway  I'm  damned 
if  I  ever  saw  a  merchant  before  who  deliberately  cheap- 
ened his  own  wares !  " 

If  the  floor  could  have  opened  I  would  have  been  its 
willing  victim,  and  I  am  sure  if  Mr.  Davenport  had 
known  that  I  would  have  to  pay  for  every  sharp  word 
spoken,  he  would  have  restrained  his  too  free  speech  for 
my  sake  —  even  though  he  was  never  able  to  do  so  for 
his  own. 

And  what  a  pity  it  was,  for  he  not  only  often  wounded 
his  friends,  but  worse  still,  he  injured  himself  by  fling- 
ing the  most  boomerang-like  speeches  at  the  public  when- 
ever he  felt  it  was  not  properly  appreciating  him.  He 
was  wonderfully  versatile,  but  though  versatility  is  a 
requisite  for  any  really  good  actor,  yet  for  some  mys- 
terious reason  it  never  meets  with  great  success  outside 
of  a  foreign  theatre.  The  American  public  demands-- 
specialists  —  one  man  to  devote  himself  solely  to  trag- 
edy, another  to  romantic  drama  and  duels,  another  to 
dress-suit  satire.  One  woman  to  tears,  another  to  laugh- 
ter, and  woe  betide  the  star  who,  able  to  act  both  comedy 
and  tragedy,  ventures  to  do  so ;  there  will  be  no  packed 
house  to  bear  witness  to  the  appreciation  felt  for  such 
skill  and  variety  of  talent. 

Mr.  Davenport's  vogue  was  probably  waning  when  I 
first  knew  him.  He  had  a  certain  intellectual  following 
who  delighted  in  the  beautiful  precision  and  distinctness 
of  his  reading  of  the  royal  Dane.  He  always  seemed 
to  me  a  Hamlet  cut  in  crystal  —  so  clear  and  pure,  so 
cold  and  hard  he  was.  The  tender  heart,  the  dread 
imaginings,  the  wounded  pride  and  love,  the  fits  and 
starts,  the  pain  and  passion  that  tortures  Hamlet  each  in 
turn,  were  utterly  incompatible  with  the  fair,  high- 
browed,  princely  philosopher  Mr.  Davenport  presented 
to  his  followers.  And  after  that  performance  I  think 
he  was  most  proud  of  his  "  horn-pipe  "  in  the  play  of 


i86  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

"  Black-Eyed  Susan  " ;  and  he  danced  it  with  a  swiftness, 
a  lightness,  and  a  limberness  of  joint  that  were  truly  as- 
tonishing in  a  man  of  his  years.  Legend  said  that  in 
London  it  had  been  a  great  "  go,"  had  drawn  —  oh, 
fabulous  shillings,  not  to  mention  pounds  —  but  I  never 
saw  him  play  William  to  a  good  house,  never  —  neither 
did  I  ever  see  the  dance  encored.  The  people  did  not 
appreciate  versatility,  and  one  night,  while  before  the 
curtain  in  responding  to  a  call,  he  began  a  bitter  tirade 
against  the  taste  of  the  public  —  offering  to  stand  there 
and  count  how  many  there  were  in  the  house,  and  telling 
them  that  next  week  that  same  house  would  not  hold  all 
who  would  wish  to  enter,  for  there  would  be  a  banjo 
played  by  a  woman,  and  such  an  intellectual  treat  was 
not  often  to  be  had,  but  they  must  not  spend  all  their 
money,  he  was  even  now  learning  to  swallow  swords  and 
play  the  banjo;  he  was  an  old  dog  now,  but  if  they  would 
have  a  little  patience  he  would  learn  their  favorite  tricks 
for  them,  even  though  he  could  not  heartily  congratulate 
them  on  their  intelligence,  etc.,  etc.  Oh,  it  was  dreadful 
taste  and  so  unjust,  too,  to  abuse  those  who  were  there 
for  the  fault  of  those  who  remained  away. 

However,  during  the  week's  engagement  of  which  I 
have  been  speaking,  I  had  two  nights  in  the  ballet,  then 
again  I  was  cast  for  an  important  part.  It  was  a  white- 
letter  day  for  me,  professionally,  for,  thanks  to  Mr. 
Davenport,  I  learned  for  the  first  time  the  immense  value 
of  "  business  "  alone,  an  action  unsustained  perhaps  by  a 
single  word.  I  am  not  positive,  but  I  believe  the  play 
was  "  A  Soldier  of  Fortune  "  or  "  The  Lion  of  St.  Mark  " 
—  anyway  it  was  a  romantic  drama.  My  part  was  not 
very  long,  but  it  had  one  most  important  scene  with  the 
hero.  It  was  one  of  those  parts  that  are  talked  about 
so  much  during  the  play  that  they  gain  a  sort  of  fictitious 
value.  At  rehearsal  I  could  not  help  noticing  how  fixedly 
Mr.  Davenport  kept  gazing  at  me.  His  frown  grew 
deeper  and  deeper  as  I  read  my  lines,  and  I  was  growing 
most  desperately  frightened,  when  he  suddenly  exclaimed : 


RECALLING   OLD   DAYS  187 

"  Wait  a  minute !  "  I  stopped ;  he  went  on  roughly,  still 
staring  hard  at  me,  "  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  worth 
breaking  a  vow  for  or  not." 

Naturally  I  had  nothing  to  say.  He  walked  up  the 
stage ;  as  he  came  down,  he  said :  "  I've  kept  that  prom- 
ise for  ten  years,  but  you  seem  such  an  honest  little  soul 
about  your  work  —  I've  a  good  mind,  yes,  I  have  a 
mind " 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  prompt-table,  and 
though  he  addressed  himself  seemingly  to  me  alone,  the 
whole  company  were  listening  attentively. 

"  When  I  first  started  out  starring  I  honestly  believed 
I  had  a  mission  to  teach  other  less  experienced  actors 
how  to  act.  I  had  made  a  close  study  of  the  plays  I 
was  to  present,  as  well  as  of  my  own  especial  parts  in 
them,  and  I  actually  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  impart 
my  knowledge  to  those  actors  who  were  strange  in  them. 
Yes,  that's  the  kind  of  a  fool  I  was.  I  used  to  explain 
and  describe,  and  show  how,  and  work  and  sweat,  and 
for  my  pains  I  received  behind  my  back  curses  for  keep- 
ing them  so  long  at  rehearsals,  and  before  my  face  stolid 
indifference  or  a  thinly  veiled  implication  that  I  was 
grossly  insulting  them  by  my  minute  directions.  Both 
myself  and  my  voice  were  pretty  well  used  up  before  I 
realized  that  my  work  had  been  wasted,  my  good  inten- 
tions damned,  that  I  had  not  been  the  leaven  that  could 
lighten  the  lump  of  stupid  self-satisfaction  we  call  the 
'  profession  ' ;  and  I  took  solemn  oath  to  myself  never 
again  to  volunteer  any  advice,  any  suggestion,  any  hint 
as  to  reading,  or  business,  or  make-up  to  man  or  woman 
in  any  play  of  mine.  If  they  acted  well,  all  right;  if 
they  acted  ill,  all  right  too.  If  I  found  them  infernal 
sticks,  I'd  leave  them  sticks.  I'd  demand  just  one  thing, 
my  cue.  As  long  as  I  got  the  word  to  speak  on,  all 
the  rest  might  go  to  the  devil !  Rehearsals  shortened, 
actors  had  plenty  of  time  for  beer  and  pretzels ;  and  as 
I  ceased  to  try  to  improve  their  work,  they  soon  called 
me  a  good  fellow.  And  now  you  come  along,  willing 


i88  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

to  work,  knowing  more  than  some  of  your  elders,  yet 
actually  believing  there  is  still  something  for  you  to 
learn.  Ambitious,  keenly  observant,  you  tempt  me  to 
teach  you  some  business  for  this  part,  and  yet  if  I  do 
I  suppose  what  goes  in  at  one  ear  will  go  out  of  the 
other!" 

Embarrassed  silence  on  my  part. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  whimsically,  "  I  see  this  is  not 
your  day  for  making  protestations,  but  I'm  going  to  give 
you  the  business,  and  if  you  choose  to  ignore  it  at 
night  —  why,  that  will  serve  me  right  for  breaking  my 
promise." 

"  Mr.  Davenport,"  I  said,  "  I  always  try  to  remember 
what  is  told  me,  and  I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  re- 
member what  you  say ;  goodness  knows  you  speak  plainly 
enough,"  at  which,  to  my  troubled  surprise,  everyone, 
star  and  all,  burst  out  laughing,  but  presently  he  returned 
to  the  play. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  "  you,  the  adventuress,  are 
worsted  in  this  scene.  You  sit  at  the  table.  I  have 
forced  you  to  sign  this  paper,  yet  you  say  to  me :  '  You 
are  a  fool ! '  Now,  how  are  you  going  to  say  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet,"  I  answered,  "  I  have  not  heard 
the  whole  play  through." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "I  don't  know  the  story  — I  don't 
know  whether  she  is  really  your  enemy,  or  only  injures 
you  on  impulse ;  whether  she  truly  loves  anyone,  or  only 
makes  believe  love." 

"  Good !  "  he  cried,  "  good !  that  is  sound  reasoning. 
Well,  you  are  my  enemy,  you  love  no  one,  so  you  see 
your  '  fool '  is  given  with  genuine  feeling.  It's  years 
since  the  line  has  drawn  fire,  but  you  do  this  business, 
and  see.  You  sit,  I  stand  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table.  You  write  your  name  —  you  are  supposed  to  be 
crushed.  I  believe  it  and  tower  triumphantly  over  you. 
The  audience  believes  it  too.  Now  you  lay  down  your 
pen  —  but  carefully,  mind  you,  carefully;  then  close  the 


MAKING  A   HIT  189 

inkstand,  and  with  very  evident  caution  place  it  out  of 
danger  of  a  fall.  Be  sure  you  take  your  time,  there  are 
places  where  deliberation  is  as  effective  as  ever  rush  and 
hurry  can  be.  Then  with  your  cheek  upon  your  hand, 
or  your  chin  on  your  clasped  hands  —  any  attitude  you 
fancy  will  do — look  at  me  good  and  long,  and  then 
speak  your  line.  Have  you  thought  yet  how  to  de- 
liver it?" 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  hesitatingly,  "  to  call  you  a  fool 
in  a  colloquial  tone  would  make  people  laugh,  I  think, 
and  —  and  the  words  don't  fit  a  declamatory  style.  I 
should  think  a  rather  low  tone  of  sneering  contempt 
would  be  best,"  and  he  shouted  loudly :  "  You've  hit  it 
square  on  the  head !  Now  let's  see  you  do  it  to-night. 
Don't  look  so  frightened,  my  girl,  only  take  your  time, 
don't  hurry.  I've  got  to  stand  there  till  you  speak,  if 
you  take  all  night.  Be  deliberate;  you  see,  you  have 
played  all  the  rest  so  fiercely  fast,  the  contrast  will  tell." 

The  night  came.  Cornered,  check-mated,  I  slowly 
signed  the  paper,  wiped  the  pen,  closed  the  inkstand,  and 
set  it  aside.  He  stood  like  a  statue.  The  silence  reached 
the  house.  I  stretched  out  my  arms  and  rested  my 
crossed  hands  lightly  on  the  table.  I  met  his  glance  a 
moment,  then,  with  a  curling  lip,  let  my  eyes  sweep 
slowly  down  length  of  body  to  boot-tip  and  back  again, 
rose  slowly,  made  a  little  "  pouf "  with  lips  and  wave 
of  hand,  and  contemptuously  drawled :  "  My  friend,  you 
are  a  fool !  "  while,  swift  and  sharp,  came  the  applause 
Mr.  Davenport  at  least  had  anticipated.  The  act  ended 
almost  immediately,  and  I  hurried  to  him,  crying :  "  Oh, 
thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Davenport.  I  never,  never  could 
have  found  applause  in  a  speech  like  that." 

"  Ah,  it  was  the  business,  child,  not  the  speech.  Al- 
ways try  to  find  good  business." 

"  Suit  the  action  to  the  word  ?  "  I  laughed. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  and  remember,  Miss,  actions 
speak  louder  than  words,  too !  But,  my  dear,  it's  a  com- 
fort to  teach  you  anything;  and  when  I  saw  you  trying 


190  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

so  carefully  to  follow  directions  to-night,  I  swear  I  al- 
most prayed  for  the  applause  you  were  so  honestly  earn- 
ing. You  are  a  brick,  my  girl !  oh,  I  don't  mean  one  of 
those  measly  little  common  building  bricks  —  I  mean  a 
great  lovely  Roman  tile !  " 

And  when,  in  God's  good  time,  success  came  to  me, 
as  I  entered  the  green-room  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  one 
evening,  a  tall  man  in  a  gray  suit  released  himself  from 
a  bevy  of  pretty  women,  and  coming  over  to  me,  held  out 
his  hands,  saying :  "  Did  I  ever  make  any  remarks  to 
you  about  building  materials  ? "  and,  laughingly,  I  an- 
swered :  "  Yes,  sir,  you  said  something  about  bricks 
some  years  ago." 

And  while  I  ran  away  to  change,  he  called  after  me: 
"  Say,  '  Jones's  Baby '  isn't  on  to-night,  is  it  ? "  and 
immediately  began  to  tell  about  Emilia,  and  such  is  the 
power  of  imagination  that  he  declared  "  She  raged  up 
and  down  behind  the  scenes  crying  '  Murder,'  till  the 
very  house  broke  loose,  and  right  through  all  the  peal- 
ing of  the  bells  high  and  clear,  you  heard  her  voice 
topping  everything! " 

I  was  resting  and  getting  breath  while  the  bell  clanged, 
remember,  but  so  much  for  human  memory. 

It  is  strange  how  often  the  merest  accident  or  the 
utterance  of  a  chance  word  may  harden  wavering  inten- 
tions into  a  fixed  resolve.  Though  I  am  not  aggressive, 
there  is  in  me  a  trace  of  bull-dog  tenacity,  made  up  of 
patient  endurance  and  sustained  effort.  Rather  slow  to 
move,  when  I  am  aroused  I  simply  cannot  let  go  my 
hold  while  breath  is  in  me,  unless  I  have  had  my  will, 
have  attained  my  object. 

Perhaps  people  may  wonder  why  I  retained  my  anom- 
alous position  in  that  theatre  —  why  I  did  not  follow  the 
advice  of  some  of  the  lady  stars,  who  gave  me  a  kindly 
thought  and  word  now  and  then.  And  at  the  risk  of 
giving  them  a  poor  opinion  of  my  wisdom,  I  present 
the  reason  that  actuated  me.  One  day  at  rehearsal, 
while  waiting  for  the  stage  to  be  reset,  several  of  the 


COLD   COMFORT  191 

actresses  gossiped  about  theatrical  matters.  One  had  a 
letter  from  a  friend  who  announced  her  advance  to  "  first 
walking  lady/'  which  turned  the  talk  to  promotion  gen- 
erally, and  laughingly  she  asked  me :  "  What  line  of  busi- 
ness shall  you  choose,  Clara,  when  your  turn  comes  ?  " 
but  before  I  could  reply,  the  eldest  woman  present 
sneered :  "  Oh,  she  can  save  herself  the  trouble  of  choos- 
ing; if  she's  ever  advanced  it  will  be  in  some  other  city 
than  this." 

I  was  astonished;  I  had  just  made  one  of  my  small 
hits,  and  had  a  nice  little  notice  in  the  paper,  but  it  did 
not  occur  to  me  that  envy  could  sustain  itself,  keeping 
warm  and  strong  and  bitter  on  such  slight  nourishment 
as  that.  And  then,  she  of  the  letter,  answered :  "  Why, 
Clara's  getting  along  faster  than  anyone  else  in  the  com- 
pany, and  I  shall  expect  to  see  her  playing  leading  busi- 
ness before  so  very  many  seasons  pass  by." 

"  Leading  business  here  ?  "  cried  the  other,  "  I  guess 
not!" 

"  Oh,"  laughed  the  first,  "  I  see,  you  mean  that  Mrs. 
Ellsler  will  claim  the  leading  parts  as  long  as  she  lives? 
Well,  then,  I  shall  expect  to  see  Clara  playing  the  lead- 
ing juveniles." 

"  Well,  you  go  right  on  expecting,  and  your  hair  will 
be  as  gray  as  mine  is,  when  she  gets  into  any  line  of 
business  in  this  town !  " 

Unspeakably  wounded,  I  asked,  timidly :  "  But  if  I 
work  hard  and  learn  to  act  well,  can't  I  hold  a  position 
as  well  as  anyone  else  ?  " 

She  looked  contemptuously  at  me,  and  then  answered : 
"  No,  you  must  be  a  fool  if  you  suppose  that  after  stand- 
ing about  in  the  ballet  for  months  on  end  that  Cleveland 
will  ever  accept  you  in  a  respectable  line  of  business. 
You've  got  to  go  to  some  other  place,  where  you  are 
not  known,  and  then  come  back  as  a  stranger,  if  you 
want  to  be  accepted  here." 

A  dull  anger  began  to  burn  in  me  —  there  was  some- 
thing so  suggestive  of  shame  in  the  words,  "  Some  other 


192  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

place,  where  you  are  not  known."  I  had  nothing  to 
hide.  I  could  work,  and  by  and  by  I  should  be  able  to 
act  as  well  as  any  of  them  —  better  perhaps.  I  felt  my 
teeth  come  together  with  a  snap,  the  bull-dog  instinct 
was  aroused.  I  looked  very  steadily  at  the  sneering 
speaker  and  said :  "  I  shall  never  leave  this  theatre  till 
I  am  leading  woman."  And  they  all  laughed,  but  it 
was  a  promise,  and  all  these  provoking  years  I  was  by 
way  of  keeping  it.  The  undertaking  was  hard,  perhaps 
it  was  foolish,  but  of  the  group  of  women  who  laughed 
at  me  that  day  every  one  of  them  lived  to  see  my  promise 
kept  to  the  letter.  When  I  left  Cleveland  it  was  to  go 
as  leading  woman  to  Cincinnati,  one  season  before  I  en- 
tered New  York. 

But  after  I  had  at  last  escaped  the  actual  ballet,  and 
was  holding  a  recognized  position,  I  was  still  treated 
quite  en  haut  —  en  has  by  the  management.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ellsler  had  acquired  the  old-shoe  habit.  I  was  the 
easy  old  dramatic  slipper,  which  it  was  pleasant  to  slip 
on  so  easily,  but  doubly  pleasant  to  be  able  to  shake  off 
without  effort. 

That  you  may  thoroughly  understand,  I  will  explain 
,that  I  was  an  excellent  Amelia  in  "  The  Robbers  "  when 
a  rather  insignificant  star  played  the  piece,  but  when  a 
Booth  or  some  star  of  like  magnitude  appeared  as 
Charles  de  Moor,  then  the  easy  slipper  was  dropped  off, 
and  Mrs.  Ellsler  herself  played  Amelia.  Any  part  be- 
longing to  me  by  right  could  be  claimed  by  that  lady,  if 
she  fancied  it,  and  if  she  wearied  of  it,  it  came  back  to 
me.  When  we  acted  in  the  country  in  the  summer-time, 
at  Akron  or  Canton,  where  there  were  real  theatres,  she 
played  Parthenia  or  Pauline  in  the  "  Lady  of  Lyons," 
or  any  other  big  part ;  but  if  the  next  town  was  smaller, 
I  played  Parthenia  or  Pauline  or  what  not.  Because  I 
had  once  been  in  the  ballet  I  had  become  an  old  pair  of 
dramatic  slippers,  to  be  slipped  on  or  kicked  off  at  will 
—  rather  humiliating  to  the  spirit,  but  excellent  train- 
ing for  the  growing  actress,  and  I  learned  much  from 


MR.  ELLSLER'S   VERSATILITY      193 

these  queer  "  now-you're-in-it  and  now  you're-not-in- 
it "  sort  of  casts,  and  having  much  respect  and  admira- 
tion for  Mr.  Ellsler,  I  fortunately  followed  in  his  wake, 
rather  than  in  that  of  any  woman.  He  was  one  of  the 
most  versatile  of  actors.  Polonius  or  Dutchy  (the  op- 
posite to  Chanfrau's  Mose),  crying  old  men  or  broad 
farce-comedy  old  men.  Often  he  doubled  King  Duncan 
and  Hecate  in  "  Macbeth,"  singing  any  of  the  witches 
when  a  more  suitable  Hecate  was  on  hand  —  acquainted 
with  the  whole  range  of  the  "  legitimate,"  his  greatest 
pleasure  was  in  acting  some  "  bit "  that  he  could  elabo- 
rate into  a  valuable  character.  I  remember  the  "  switch- 
man "  in  "  Under  the  Gaslight "  —  it  could  not  have 
been  twenty  lines  long,  yet  he  made  of  him  so  cheery, 
so  jolly,  so  kindly  an  old  soul,  everyone  was  sorry  when 
he  left  the  stage.  He  always  had  a  good  notice  for  the 
work,  and  a  hearty  reception  ever  after  the  first  night. 
It  was  from  him  I  learned  my  indifference  to  the  length 
of  my  parts.  The  value  of  a  character  cannot  always  be 
measured  by  the  length  and  number  of  its  speeches,  but 
I  think  the  only  word  of  instruction  he  ever  gave  me 
was :  "  Speak  loud  —  speak  distinctly,"  which  was  cer- 
tainly good  as  far  as  it  went.  He  was  the  most  genial 
of  men,  devotedly  fond  of  children,  he  was  "  Uncle 
John  "  to  them  all,  and  while  never  famous  for  the  size 
of  the  salaries  he  paid,  he  was  so  good  a  friend  to  his 
people  that  he  often  had  trouble  in  making  desirable 
changes,  and  the  variegated  and  convoluted  falsehoods 
he  invented  in  order  to  get  rid  of  one  excessively  bad 
old  actor  with  an  affectionate  heart,  who  wished  to  stay 
at  a  reduced  salary,  must  lay  heavy  on  his  conscience  to 
this  hour. 

I  used  to  wonder  why  he  had  never  taken  to  starring, 
but  he  said  he  had  not  had  enough  self-assertion.  He 
was  a  hard-working  man,  but  he  seemed  to  lack  resolu- 
tion. He  had  opinions  —  not  convictions.  He  was  al- 
ways second  in  his  own  theatre  —  often  letting  "  I  dare 
not  wait  upon  I  would."  After  years  of  acquaintance- 


194  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

ship,  not  to  say  friendship,  when  my  ambition  had  been 
aroused,  and  I  turned  hopeful  eyes  toward  New  York, 
Mr.  Ellsler  opposed  me  bitterly,  telling  me  I  must  be 
quite  mad  to  think  that  the  metropolis  would  give  me  a 
hearing.  He  said  many  pleasant  and  encouraging  things, 
or  wrote  them,  since  I  was  in  Cincinnati  then.  Among 
them  I  find :  "  The  idea  of  your  acting  in  New  York ; 
why,  better  actresses  than  you  are,  or  can  ever  hope  to 
be,  have  been  driven  broken-hearted  from  its  stage.  Do 
you  suppose  you  could  tie  the  shoe  of  Eliza  Logan,  one 
of  the  greatest  actresses  that  ever  lived  —  but  yet  not 
good  enough  for  New  York?  How  about  Julia  Dean, 
too?  Go  East,  and  be  rejected,  and  then  see  what  man- 
ager will  want  you  in  the  West." 

Verily  not  an  encouraging  friend.  Again  I  find: 
"  Undoubtedly  you  are  the  strongest,  the  most  original, 
and  the  youngest  leading  lady  in  the  profession  —  but 
why  take  any  risk?  why  venture  into  New  York,  where 
you  may  fail?  at  any  rate,  wait  ten  years,  till  you  are 
surer  of  yourself." 

Good  heavens!  If  I  was  original  and  strong  in  the 
West,  why  should  I  wait  ten  years  before  venturing  into 
the  East? 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOURTH 

I    recall  the   Popularity  and  too   Early    Death  of  Edwin 

Adams. 

I  HEAR  many  tales  of  the  insolence  of  stars  —  of 
their   overbearing   manners,   and   their   injustice   to 
"  little  people,"   as  the  term   goes ;   but   personally 
I  have  seen  almost  nothing  of  it.     In  the  old  days  stars 
were  generally  patient  and  courteous  in  their  manners 
to  the  supporting  companies. 

Among  the  stars  whose  coming  was  always  hailed  with 
joy  was  Edwin  Adams,  he  of  the  golden  voice,  he  who 
should  have  prayed  with  fervor,  both  day  and  night: 
"  Oh,  God !  protect  me  from  my  friends !  "  He  was  so 
popular  with  men,  they  sought  him  out,  they  followed 
him,  and  they  generally  expressed  their  liking  through 
the  medium  of  food  and  drink.  Like  every  other  sturdy 
man  that's  worth  his  salt,  he  could  stand  off  an  enemy, 
but  he  was  as  weak  as  water  in  the  hands  of  a  friend, 
and  thus  it  came  about  that  he  often  stood  in  slippery 
places,  and  though  he  fell  again  and  again,  yet  was  he 
forgiven  as  often  as  he  sinned,  and  heartily  welcomed 
back  the  next  season,  so  great  was  his  power  to  charm. 
He  was  not  handsome,  he  was  not  heroic  in  form,  but 
there  was  such  dash  and  go,  such  sincerity  and  natural- 
ness in  all  his  work,  that  whether  he  was  love-making 
or  righting,  singing  or  dying,  he  convinced  you  he  was 
the  character's  self,  whether  that  character  was  the  de- 
mented victim  of  the  Bastille,  young  Rover  in  "  Wild 
Oats,"  or  that  most  gallant  gentleman  Mercutio,  in 
which  no  greater  ever  strode  than  that  of  Edwin  Adams. 
His  buoyancy  of  spirit,  his  unconquerable  gayety  made 


196  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

it  seem  but  natural  his  passion  for  jesting  should  go  with 
him  to  the  very  grave.    Many  a  fine  Mercutio  gives: 

" a  plague  o'  both  your  houses ! " 


with  a  resentful  bitterness  that  implies  blame  to  Romeo 
for  his  "  taking  off/'  which  would  be  a  most  cruel  legacy 
of  grief  and  remorse  to  leave  to  his  young  friend  —  but 
Adams  was  that  brave  Mercutio: 

"  That  gallant  spirit  that  aspired  the  clouds. 
Which  too  untimely  here  did  scorn  the  earth." 

and  whose  last  quips,  coming  faintly  across  paling  lips, 
expressed  still  good-natured  fun,  and  so: 

" a  plague  o'  both  your  houses !  " 


but  no  blame  at  all. 

His  grace  of  movement  and  his  superb  voice  were  his 
greatest  gifts.  Most  stars  had  one  rather  short  play 
which  they  reserved  for  Saturday  nights,  that  they  might 
be  able  to  catch  their  night  train  en  route  for  the  next 
engagement;  so  it  happened  that  Mr.  Adams,  having 
bravely  held  temptation  from  him  during  the  first  five 
nights,  generally  yielded  to  the  endearments  of  his  friends 
by  the  sixth,  and  was  most  anyone  but  himself  when  he 
came  to  dress  for  the  performance  of  a  play  most  sug- 
gestively named :  "  The  Drunkard."  It  was  a  painful 
and  a  humiliating  sight  to  see  him  wavering  uncertainly 
in  the  entrance.  All  brightness,  intelligence,  and  high 
endeavor  extinguished  by  liquor's  murky  fog.  His  apol- 
ogies were  humble  and  evidently  sincere,  but  the  sad 
memory  was  one  not  to  be  forgotten. 

I  had  just  married,  and  we  were  in  San  Francisco. 
I  was  rehearsing  for  my  engagement  there.  The  papers 
said  Mr.  Adams  had  arrived  from  Australia  and  had 
been  carried  on  a  stretcher  to  a  hotel,  where,  with  his 
devoted  wife  by  his  side,  he  lay  dying.  A  big  lump  rose 


THE   LAST   OF   EDWIN   ADAMS     197 

in  my  throat,  tears  filled  my  eyes.  I  asked  my  husband, 
who  had  greatly  admired  the  actor,  and  who  was  glad 
to  pay  him  any  courtesy  or  service  possible,  to  call,  leave 
cards,  and  if  he  saw  Mrs.  Adams,  which  was  improbable, 
to  try  to  coax  her  out  for  a  drive,  if  but  for  half  an  hour, 
and  to  deliver  a  message  of  remembrance  and  sympathy 
from  me  to  her  husband.  To  his  surprise,  he  was  ad- 
mitted by  the  dying  man's  desire  to  his  room,  where  the 
worn,  weary,  self-contained,  ever  gently  smiling  wife  sat 
and,  like  an  automaton,  fanned  hour  by  hour,  softly, 
steadily  fanned  breath  between  those  parched  lips,  that 
whispered  a  gracious  message  of  congratulation  and 
thanks. 

Mrs.  Adams  never  left  him,  scarce  took  her  eyes  from 
him.  Poor  wife!  who  knew  she  could  hold  him  but  a 
few  hours  longer. 

My  husband  was  deeply  moved,  and  when  he  tried  to 
describe  to  me  that  wasted  frame  —  those  helpless  hands, 
whose  faintly  twitching  fingers  could  no  longer  pluck  at 
the  folded  sheet,  my  mind  obstinately  refused  to  accept 
the  picture,  and  instead,  through  a  blur  of  tears,  I  saw 
him  as  on  that  last  morning,  when  in  his  prime,  strong 
and  gentle,  at  his  rehearsal  of  "  Enoch  Arden,"  he  said 
to  me :  "I  am  disappointed  to  the  very  heart,  Clara,  that 
you  are  not  my  Annie  Lee." 

He  took  his  hat  off,  he  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 
"  I  can't  find  her,"  he  said,  with  that  touch  of  pathos 
that  made  his  voice  irresistible ;  "  no,  I  have  not  found 
her  yet  —  they  are  not  innocent  and  brave!  They  are 
bouncing,  buxom  creatures  or  they  are  whimpering  lit- 
tle milk-sops.  They  are  never  fisher-maidens,  flower- 
pure,  yet  strong  as  the  salt  of  the  sea !  She  loved  them 
both,  Clara,  yet  she  was  no  more  weak  nor  bad  than 
when,  with  childish  lips,  she  innocently  promised  to  be 
'  a  little  wife  to  both '  the  angry  lads  —  to  Philip  and 
young  Enoch!  Now  your  eyes  are  sea-eyes,  and  your 
voice  —  oh,  I  am  disappointed!  I  thought  I  should  find 
my  Annie  here !  " 


198  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

And  so  I  see  him  now  as  I  think  with  tender  sorrow 
of  the  actor  who  was  so  strong  and  yet  so  weak  —  dear 
Ned  Adams ! 

When  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson  came  to  us  I  found  his 
acting  nothing  less  than  a  revelation.  Here,  in  full  per- 
fection, was  the  style  I  had  feebly,  almost  blindly  been 
reaching  for.  This  man,  this  poet  ef  comedy,  as  he 
seemed  to  me,  had  so  perfectly  wedded  nature  to  art  that 
they  were  indeed  one.  Here  again  I  found  the  immense 
value  of  "  business  "  the  most  minute,  the  worth  of  re- 
straint, if  you  had  power  to  restrain,  and  learned  that 
his  perfect  naturalness  was  the  result  of  his  exquisite 
art  in  cutting  back  and  training  nature's  too  great  ex- 
uberance. 

I  was  allowed  to  play  Meenie,  his  daughter,  in  the  play 
of  "  Rip  Van  Winkle,"  and  my  delight  knew  no  bounds. 
He  was  very  gentle  and  kind,  he  gave  me  pleasant  words 
of  praise  for  my  work;  he  was  very  great,  and  —  and 
his  eyes  were  fine,  and  I  approved  of  his  chin,  too,  and 
I  was,  in  fact,  rapidly  blending  the  actor  and  the  man  in 
one  personality.  In  the  last  act,  when  kneeling  at  his 
feet,  during  our  long  wait  upon  the  stage,  I  knelt  and 
adored!  and  he  —  oh,  Mr.  Jefferson,  Mr.  Jefferson,  that 
I  should  say  it,  but  did  you  not  hold  my  fingers  unneces- 
sarily close  when  you  made  some  mild  little  remarks  that 
were  not  in  the  play,  but  which  filled  my  breast  with  quite 
outrageous  joy,  and  pride  —  indeed,  my  crop  of  young 
affections,  always  rather  a  sparse  growth,  came  very  near 
being  gathered  into  a  small  sheaf  and  laid  at  your  feet. 

Fortunately,  I  learned  in  time  that  there  was  an  almost 
brand-new  wife  in  the  hotel  next  door,  and  I  looked  at 
him  with  big,  reproachful  eyes  and  kept  my  fingers  to 
myself,  and  wisely  put  off  the  harvesting  of  my  affec- 
tions until  some  distant  day. 

Mind  you,  I  was  well  within  my  rights  in  this  matter. 
Girls  always  fall  in  love  with  stars  —  some  fall  in  love 
with  all  of  them,  but  that  must  be  fatiguing ;  besides,  as 
I  said  before,  my  affections  were  of  such  sparse  growth 


MR.  JEFFERSON'S  ADVICE         199 

they  could  not  go  round.  Yet  since  I  could  honor  thus 
but  one  star,  I  must  say  I  look  back  with  complete  ap- 
proval upon  my  early  choice,  and  the  shock  to  my  heart 
did  not  prevent  me  from  treasuring  up  some  kindly  words 
of  advice  from  the  artist-actor  anent  the  making-up  of 
eyes  for  the  stage. 

Said  he  to  me  one  evening :  "  My  girl,  I  want  to  speak 
to  you  about  that  '  make-up '  you  have  on  your  eyes." 

"  Yes,  sir  ?  "  I  answered,  interrogatively,  feeling  very 
hot  and  uncomfortable,  "  have  I  too  much  on  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  think  you  have,  though  you 
have  much  less  than  most  women  wear." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  hurriedly  interposed,  "  there  was  a 
French  dancer  here  who  covered  nearly  a  third  of  her 
eyelids  with  a  broad  blue-black  band  of  pomatum,  and 
she  said " 

"  Oh,"  he  protested,  "  I  know,  she  said  it  made  the 
eyes  large  and  lustrous,  and  as  you  see  yourself  in  the 
glass  it  does  seem  to  have  that  effect;  but,  by  the  way, 
what  do  you  think  of  my  eyes  ?  " 

And  with  truth  and  promptness,  I  made  answer :  "  I 
think  they're  lovely." 

My  unexpected  candor  proved  rather  confusing,  for  for 
a  moment  he  "  Er-er-erd,"  and  finally  said :  "  I  meant 
as  a  feature  of  acting,  they  are  good  acting  eyes,  aren't 
they?  Well,  you  don't  find  them  made  up,  do  you? 
Now  listen  to  me,  child,  always  be  guided  as  far  as  pos- 
sible by  nature.  When  you  make  up  your  face,  you  get 
powder  on  your  eyelashes,  nature  made  them  dark,  so 
you  are  free  to  touch  the  lashes  themselves  with  ink  or 
pomade,  but  you  should  not  paint  a  great  band  about 
your  eye,  with  a  long  line  added  at  the  corner  to  rob  it 
of  every  bit  of  expression.  And  now  as  to  the  beauty 
this  lining  is  supposed  to  bring,  some  night  when  you 
have  time  I  want  you  to  try  a  little  experiment.  Make 
up  your  face  carefully,  darken  your  brows  and  the  lashes 
of  one  eye;  as  to  the  other  eye,  you  must  load  the  lashes 
with  black  pomade,  then  draw  a  black  line  beneath  the 


200  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

eye,  and  a  broad  line  on  its  upper  lid,  and  a  final  line  out 
from  the  corner.  The  result  will  be  an  added  lustre  to 
the  made-up  eye,  a  seeming  gain  in  brilliancy ;  but  now, 
watching  your  reflection  all  the  time,  move  slowly  back- 
ward from  the  glass,  and  an  odd  thing  will  happen,  that 
made-up  eye  will  gradually  grow  smaller  and  smaller, 
until,  at  a  distance  much  less  than  that  of  the  auditorium, 
it  will  really  look  more  like  a  round  black  hole  than 
anything  else,  and  will  be  absolutely  without  expression. 
You  have  an  admirable  stage  eye  —  an  actor's  eye,  sen- 
sitive, expressive,  well  opened,  it's  a  pity  to  spoil  it  with 
a  load  of  blacking." 

And  I  said,  gratefully :  "  I'll  never  do  it  again,  sir," 
and  I  never  have,  first  from  respect  to  a  great  actor's 
opinion,  and  gratitude  for  his  kindly  interest,  later  hav- 
ing tried  his  experiment,  from  the  conviction  that  he  was 
right,  and  finally  because  my  tears  would  have  sent  inky 
rivulets  down  my  cheeks  had  I  indulged  in  black-banded 
eyes.  So  in  all  these  years  of  work,  just  once,  in  playing 
a  tricky,  treacherous,  plotting  female,  that  I  felt  should 
be  a  close-eyed,  thin-lipped  creature,  I  have  painted  and 
elongated  my  eyes,  otherwise  I  have  kept  my  promise 
"  not  to  do  it  again." 

I  met  Mr.  Jefferson  in  Paris  at  that  dreadful  time  when 
he  was  threatened  with  blindness,  and  I  never  shall  for- 
get his  gentle  patience,  his  marvelous  courage.  That 
was  a  day  of  real  rejoicing  to  me,  when  the  news  came 
that  his  sight  was  saved.  Blindness  coming  upon  any 
man  is  a  horror,  but  to  a  man  who  can  see  nature  as 
Joseph  Jefferson  sees  her  it  would  have  been  an  almost  in- 
credible cruelty. 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FIFTH 

I  See  an  Actress  Dethroned  —  I  Make  Myself  a  Promise, 
for  the  World  Does  Move. 

TO  be  discarded  by  the  public,  that  is  the  bete 
noire,  the  unconquerable  dread  and  terror  of  the 
actor.  To  fail  in  the  great  struggle  for  suprem- 
acy is  nothing  compared  to  the  agony  of  falling  after 
the  height  has  once  been  won.  £ 

Few  people  can  think  of  the  infamous  casting  down 
of  the  great  column  Vendome  without  a  shiver  of  pain 
—  the  smashing  of  the  memorial  tablet,  the  shattering 
of  the  statue,  these  are  sights  to  shrink  from,  yet  what 
does  such  shrinking  amount  to  when  compared  to  the 
pain  of  seeing  a  human  being  thrust  from  the  sunlight 
of  public  popularity  into  the  darkness  of  obscurity? 

I  was  witness  once  to  the  discrowning  of  an  actress, 
and  if  I  could  forget  the  anguish  of  her  eyes,  the  pallor 
beneath  her  rouge,  I  would  be  a  most  grateful  woman. 

She  had  been  handsome  in  her  prime,  handsome  in 
the  regular-featured,  statuesque  fashion  so  desirable  for 

an  actress  of  tragic  parts;  but  Mrs.  P (for  I  shall 

call  her  only  by  that  initial,  as  it  seems  to  me  that  nam- 
ing her  fully  would  be  unkind)  had  reached,  yes,  had 
passed,  middle  age  and  had  wandered  far  into  distant 
places,  had  known  much  sorrow,  and,  alas,  for  her,  had 
not  noticed  that  her  profession,  like  everything  alive,  like 
the  great  God-made  world  itself,  moved,  moved,  moved! 
So  not  noticing,  she,  poor  thing,  stood  still  in  her  method 
of  work,  loyally  doing  her  best  in  the  style  of  acting  that 
had  been  so  intensely  admired  in  her  triumphant  youth. 

She  had  most  successfully  starred  in  Cleveland  years 
before,  but  at  the  time  I  speak  of  she  was  returning 

2OI 


202  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

from  distant  parts,  widowed  and  poor,  yet  quite,  quite 
confident  of  her  ability  to  please  the  public,  and  with  plans 
all  made  to  star  two,  possibly  three,  years,  long  enough 
to  secure  a  little  home  and  tiny  income,  when  she  would 
retire  gracefully  from  the  sight  of  the  regretful  public. 
Meantime  she  entreated  Mr.  Ellsler,  if  possible,  to  give 
her  an  engagement,  that  she  might  earn  money  enough 
to  carry  her  to  New  York  and  see  the  great  agents  there. 

By  some  unlooked-for  chance  the  very  next  week  was 
open,  and  rather  tremulously  as  manager,  but  kind- 
heartedly  as  man,  Mr.  Ellsler  engaged  her  for  that  week. 

The  city  was  billed  accordingly :  "  Mrs.  P ,  the 

Queen  of  Tragedy !"—- "  The  celebrated  Mrs.  P , 

Cleveland's  great  favorite !  "  —  "  Especial  engagement 
of  Mrs.  P !"  etc.,  etc. 

I  had  a  tiny  part  in  the  old  Grecian  tragedy  she  opened 
in.  I  came  early,  as  was  my  wont,  and  when  dressed 
went  out  to  look  at  the  house  —  good  heavens!  I 
gasped.  Poor?  it  was  worse  than  poor.  Bad?  it  was 
worse  than  bad.  My  heart  sank  for  her  as  I  recalled 
how,  that  morning,  she  had  asked,  with  a  little  noncha- 
lant air  of :  "  It  doesn't  really  matter,  of  course,  but  do 
the  people  here  throw  their  flowers  still,  or  do  they  send 
them  up  over  the  footlights  ?  "  Flowers  ?  Oh,  poor 
Mrs.  P ! 

The  overture  had  ended  before  she  came  out  of  her 
dressing-room,  so  she  had  no  warning  of  what  the  house 
was  like.  She  was  all  alight  with  pleasant  anticipation. 
At  a  little  distance  she  looked  remarkably  well;  her 
Grecian  robes  hung  gracefully,  her  hair  was  arranged 
and  filleted  correctly  and  becomingly,  her  movements 
were  assured;  only  looking  at  the  deeply  drawn  lines 
about  her  mouth,  made  one  regret  that  her  opening 
speeches  referred  so  distinctly  to  her  "  dewy  youth  " ; 
but  Cleveland  was  well  used  to  that  sort  of  contradiction, 
and  I  might  have  taken  heart  of  grace  for  her  if  only 
she  had  not  looked  so  very  pleased  and  happy. 

The  opening  scene  of  the  old-fashioned  play  was  well 


AN  ACTRESS  DETHRONED        203 

on  when  the  star  appeared,  and  smiling  graciously  — 
faced  the  almost  empty  house.  She  halted  —  she  gave 
the  sort  of  sudden  gasp  that  a  dash  of  icy  water  in  the 
face  might  cause.  The  humiliating  half-dozen  involun- 
tary hand-claps  that  had  greeted  her  fell  into  silence  as 
she  came  fully  into  view,  where  she  stood  dismayed, 
stricken  —  for  she  was  an  old  actress  and  she  read  the 
signs  aright,  she  knew  this  was  the  great  taboo. 

Her  face  whitened  beneath  her  rouge,  her  lips  moved 
silently.  One  moment  she  turned  her  back  squarely 
upon  the  audience,  for  she  knew  her  face  was  anguished, 
and  moved  by  the  same  instinct  that  makes  an  Indian 
draw  the  blanket  across  his  dying  face,  or  the  wounded 
animal  seek  deepest  solitude,  she  sought  to  hide  her  suf- 
fering from  the  coldly  observant  few. 

With  the  light  stricken  from  her  eyes  they  looked  dull 
and  sunken,  while  every  nerve  and  muscle  of  her  poor 
face  seemed  a-quiver.  It  was  a  dreadful  moment  for  us 
who  looked  on  and  understood. 

Presently  she  clinched  her  hands,  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  facing  about,  took  up  the  burden  of  the  play,  and  in 
cold,  flat  tones  began  her  part.  She  did  her  best  in 
the  old,  stilted  declamatory  style,  that  was  as  dead  as 
many  of  the  men  and  women  were  who  used  to  applaud 
f;t.  Once  only  the  audience  warmed  to  her  a  trifle,  and 
as  she  accepted  their  half-hearted  "  call,"  her  sad  eyes 
roved  over  the  empty  spaces  of  the  house,  a  faint,  tired 
smile  touched  her  lips,  while  two  great  tears  coursed 
down  her  cheeks.  It  was  the  moment  of  renunciation! 
They  denied  her  right  to  the  crown  of  popularity,  and 
she,  with  that  piteous  smile,  bowed  to  their  verdict,  as  an 
actress  must. 

At  the  curtain's  final  fall  her  stardom  was  over.  She 
went  very  quietly  to  Mr.  Ellsler  and  gave  him  back  the 
engagement  he  had  granted  her,  saying,  simply :  "  They 
do  not  want  me  any  longer." 

A  short  time  after  that,  she  sat  one  evening  in  Mr. 
Ellsler's  family  box,  and  with  wide,  astonished  eyes  gazed 


204  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

at  the  packed  house  which  greeted  the  jig,  the  clog,  the 
song,  the  banjo  of  Miss  Lotta,  whose  innocent  deviltries 
were  bringing  her  a  fortune,  and  when,  in  response  to  a 
"  call,"  instead  of  appearing,  Miss  Lotta  thrust  her  foot 
and  ankle  out  beyond  the  curtain  and  wriggled  them  at 

the  delighted  crowd,  poor  Mrs.  P drew  her  hand 

across  her  forehead  and  said,  in  bewildered  tones :  "  But 
—  I  don't  understand !  " 

No,  she  could  not  understand,  and  Miss  Lotta  had  not 
yet  faced  New  York,  hence  John  Brougham,  the  witty, 
wise,  and  kindly  Irish  gentleman,  had  not  yet  had  his 
opportunity  of  summing  up  the  brilliant  and  erratic  star, 
as  he  did  later  on  in  these  words :  "  Act,  acting,  actress  ? 
what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  she's  no  actress,  she's  —  why, 
she's  a  little  dramatic  cocktail !  "  which  was  a  delicious 
Broughamism  and  truthful  withal. 

But  that  sad  night,  when  Mrs.  P first  set  her  feet 

in  the  path  of  obscurity,  I  took  to  myself  a  lesson,  and 
said :  "  While  I  live,  I  will  move.  I  will  not  stand  still 
in  my  satisfaction,  should  success  ever  come  to  me  — 
but  will  try  to  keep  my  harness  bright  by  action,  in  at  least 
an  effort  to  keep  abreast  with  the  world,  for  verily,  verily, 
it  does  move !  " 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIXTH 

Mr.  Lawrence  Barrett  the  Brilliant  and  his  Brother  Joseph 
the  Unfortunate. 

THERE  were  few  stars  with  whom  I  took  greater 
pleasure  in  acting  than  with  Mr.  Lawrence  Bar- 
rett.    I  sometimes  wonder  if  even  now  this  pro- 
fession  really   knows   what  great  reason   it  has  to  be 
proud  of  him.    He  was  a  man  respected  by  all,  admired 
by  many,  and  if  loved  but  by  few,  theirs  was  a  love  so 
profound  and  so  tender  it  amply  sufficed. 

We  are  a  censorious  people,  and  just  as  our  greatest 
virtue  is  generosity  in  giving,  so  our  greatest  fault  is  the 
eagerness  with  which  we  seek  out  the  mote  in  our  neigh- 
bor's eye,  without  feeling  the  slightest  desire  for  the 
removal  of  the  beam  in  our  own  eye.  Thus  one  finds 
that  the  first  and  clearest  memory  actors  have  of  Mr. 
Barrett  is  of  his  irascible  temper  and  a  certain  air  of  su- 
periority, not  of  his  erudition,  of  the  high  position  he 
won  socially  as  well  as  artistically,  of  the  almost  Titanic 
struggle  of  his  young  manhood  with  adverse  circum- 
stances. 

Nor  does  that  imply  the  slightest  malice  on  their  part. 
Actors,  as  a  family  trait,  have  a  touch  of  childishness 
about  them  which  they  come  by  honestly  enough.  We 
all  know  the  farther  we  get  from  infancy  the  weaker  the 
imagination  grows.  Now  it  is  imagination  that  makes 
the  man  an  actor,  so  it  is  not  wonderful  if  with  the  pow- 
erful creative  fancy  of  childhood  he  should  also  retain  a 
touch  of  its  petulance  and  self-consciousness.  Thus  to 
many  actors  Mr.  Barrett's  greatness  is  lost  sight  of  in 
the  memory  of  some  dogmatic  utterance  or  sharp  reproval 
that  wounded  self-love. 

205 


206  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

It  would  seem  like  presumption  for  me  to  offer  any 
word  of  praise  for  the  artistic  work  of  his  later  years; 
the  world  remembers  it ;  the  world  knows,  too,  how  high 
he  climbed,  how  secure  was  his  position;  but  twice  I 
have  heard  the  stories  of  his  earlier  years  —  some  from 
the  lips  of  his  brave  wife,  once  from  the  lips  of  that  be- 
loved brother  Joe,  who  was  yet  his  dread  and  sorrow  — 
and  at  each  telling  my  throat  ached  at  the  pain  of  it, 
while  my  nerves  thrilled  with  admiration  for  such  en- 
durance, such  splendid  determination. 

A  paradox  is,  I  believe,  something  seemingly  absurd, 
yet  true  in  fact.  In  that  case  I  was  not  so  very  far  wrong, 
in  spite  of  general  laughter,  when,  after  my  first  rehearsal 
with  him,  I  termed  Mr.  Barrett  a  man  of  cold  enthusiasm. 
"  But,"  one  cried  to  me,  "  you  stupid  —  that's  a  paradox ! 
don't  you  see  your  words  contradict  each  other  ?  " 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  with  shame-faced  obstinacy, 
"  perhaps  they  do,  but  they  are  not  contradicted  by  him. 
You  all  call  him  icy-cold,  and  /  know  he  is  truly  en- 
thusiastic over  the  possibilities  of  this  play,  so  that 
makes  what  I  call  cold  enthusiasm,  however  par-a-para- 
doxy  (?)  it  sounds." 

And  now,  after  all  the  years,  I  can  approve  that  child- 
ish judgment.  He  was  a  man  whose  intellectual  enthusi- 
asm was  backed  by  a  cold  determination  that  would  never 
let  him  say  "  die  "  while  he  had  breath  in  his  body  and 
a  stage  to  rehearse  on. 

I  have  a  miserable  memory  for  names,  and  often  in 
the  middle  of  a  remark  the  name  I  intended  to  mention 
will  pass  from  my  remembrance  utterly;  so,  all  my  life, 
I  have  had  the  very  bad  habit  of  trying  to  make  my  hearers 
understand  whom  I  meant  by  imitating  or  mentioning 
some  trait  peculiar  to  the  nameless  one,  and  I  generally 
succeeded. 

As,  for  instance,  when  I  wished  to  tell  whom  I  had 
seen  taking  away  a  certain  book,  I  said :  "  It  was  Mr. 
—  er  —  er,  oh,  you  know,  Mr.  —  er,  why  this  man,"  and 
I  pulled  in  my  head  like  a  turtle  and  hitched  up  my  shoul- 


LAWRENCE  BARRETT  207 

ders  to  my  ears,  and  the  anxious  owner  cried :  "  Oh, 
Thompson  has  it,  has  he?"  Thompson  having,  so  far 
as  we  could  see,  no  neck  at  all  —  my  pantomime  sug- 
gested his  name. 

Everyone  can  recall  the  enormous  brow  of  Mr.  Bar- 
rett, and  how  beneath  his  great,  burning  eyes  his  cheeks 
hollowed  suddenly  in,  thinning  down  to  his  sensitive 
mouth.  I  was  on  the  stage  in  New  Orleans,  the  first 
morning  of  my  engagement  there  (I  was  under  Mr. 
Daly's  management,  but  he  had  loaned  me  for  a  fort- 
night), and  I  started  out  with:  "  Mr.  Daly  said  to  please 

ask  Mr. ,"  away  went  the  name  —  goodness  gracious, 

should  I  forget  my  own  name  next! 

The  stage  manager  suggested :    "  Mr.  Rogers." 

"  No,  oh,  no !  I  mean  Mr.  —  er  —  er,"  and  I  trailed 
off  helplessly. 

"  Mr.  Seymour  ?  "  offered  a  lady. 

"  No,  no !  that's  not  it !  "  I  cried ;  "  why,  goodness 
mercy  me!  you  all  know  whom  I  mean  —  the  —  the 
actor  with  the  hungry  eyes?  " 

"  Oh,  Barrett !  "  they  shouted,  all  save  one  voice,  that 
with  a  mighty  laugh  cried  out :  "  That's  my  brother 
.Larry,  God  bless  him!  no  one  could  miss  that  descrip- 
tion, for  sure  he  looks  as  hungry  to-day  as  ever  he  did 
when  he  felt  hungry  to  his  heart's  core !  " 

And  so  it  was  that  I  first  met  poor  Joe  Barrett,  who 
worshipped  the  brother  whose  sore  torment  he  was.  For 
this  great,  broad-shouldered,  ruddy-faced  fellow  with  the 
boyish  laugh  had  ever  in  his  veins  the  craving  for  liquor 
—  that  awful  inherited  appetite  that  can  nullify  prayer 
and  break  down  the  most  fixed  determination. 

"  Ah !  "  he  cried  to  me,  "  no  one,  no  one  can  ever  know 
how  good  Larry  has  been  to  me,  for  while  he  is  fighting 
and  struggling  to  rise,  every  little  while  some  lapse  of 
mine  drags  him  back  a  bit.  Yet  he  never  casts  me  off  — 
never  disowns  me.  He  has  had  to  discharge  me  for  the 
sake  of  discipline  here,  but  he  has  re-engaged  me.  He 
has  sent  me  away,  but  he  has  taken  me  back  again.  I 


2o8  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

promise,  and  fail  to  keep  my  promise.  I  fall,  and  he 
picks  me  up.  Through  the  cursed  papers  I  have  dragged 
my  brother  through  the  mud,  but  the  sweet  Saviour  could 
hardly  forgive  me  more  fully  than  Larry  does,  for,  look 
you,  he  never  forgets  that  I  am  the  son  of  my  father, 
who  was  accursed  before  me,  while  he  is  the  son  of  our 
poor  mother  —  blessed  be  her  name!  It  isn't  that  I 
don't  try.  I  keep  straight  until  the  agony  of  longing 
begins  to  turn  into  a  mad  desire  to  do  bodily  harm  to 
someone  —  anyone,  and  then,  fearing  worse,  I  drink  my 
fill,  and  the  papers  find  me  out,  and  are  not  content  to 
tell  of  the  disgraceful  condition  of  Joseph  Barrett,  but 
must  add,  always,  '  the  brother  of  the  prominent  actor, 
Mr.  Lawrence  Barrett/  Poor  Larry!  poor  little  deli- 
cate chap  that  he  used  to  be,  with  his  big,  brainy  head  - 
too  heavy  for  his  weak  neck  and  frail  body  to  carry." 

And  then  he  told  me  of  their  sorrowful  life,  their  pov- 
erty. The  often-idle  father  and  his  dislike  for  the  deli- 
cate boy,  whose  only  moment  of  happiness  was  when  the 
weary  mother,  the  poor  supper  over,  sat  for  a  little  to 
breathe  and  rest,  and  held  his  heavy  head  upon  her  lov- 
ing breast,  while  Joe  sang  his  songs  or  told  all  the  hap- 
penings of  the  day. 

That  happy  Joe,  who  had  no  pride  and  was  quite  as 
satisfied  without  a  seat  to  his  small  trousers  as  with  one ! 
Then  he  told  me  how  hard  it  was  for  Lawrence  to  learn ; 
how  he  had  to  grind  and  grind  at  the  simplest  lesson,  but 
once  having  acquired  it,  it  was  his  for  life. 

"  Why,  even  now,"  said  he,  "  in  confidence  I'm  tell- 
ing you,  my  brother  is  studying  like  a  little  child  at 
French,  and  it  does  seem  that  he  cannot  learn  it.  He 
works  so  desperately  over  it,  a  doctor  has  warned  him 
he  must  choose  between  French  and  his  many  "  parts  " 
or  break  down  from  overwork.  But  he  will  go  on  ham- 
mering at  his  parlez-vous  until  he  learns  them  or  dies 
trying." 

"If  you  were  to  live  with  your  brother,  might  not  that 
help  to  keep  you  strong?"  I  asked. 


UNFORTUNATE  JOE  BARRETT  209 

"  Now,  my  dear  little  woman,"  he  smiled,  "  Larry  is 
human,  in  some  respects,  if  he  is  almost  God-like  toward 
me.  Remember  he  has  a  young  family  now,  and  though 
his  wife  is  as  good  as  gold  and  always  patient  with  me, 
I  am  not  the  kind  of  example  a  man  would  care  to  place 
before  his  little  ones,  and  as  Lawrence  is  devoured  with 
ambition  for  them  and  their  future,  he  rightly  guards 
them  from  too  close  contact  with  the  drag  and  curse  of 
his  own  life,  in  whom  he,  and  he  alone,  can  see  the  sturdy 
tow-headed  brother  of  the  old  boyish  days,  who  saved 
him  from  many  and  many  a  kick  and  thump  his  delicate 
body  could  ill  have  borne." 

Joe  told  me  of  his  dead  wife  —  Viola  Crocker  that 
was  —  the  niece  of  Mrs.  Bowers  and  Mrs.  Conway ;  of 
their  happiness  and  their  misery.  Describing  himself  as 
having  been  "  in  heaven  or  in  hell  —  without  any  be- 
twixts  and  betweens."  His  devotion  to  me  was  very 
great.  He  was  "  hard-up  "  for  money,  as  the  men  ex- 
press it,  but  he  would  manage  to  bring  me  a  single  rose 
or  one  bunch  of  grapes  or  a  half-dozen  mushrooms  or 
some  such  small  offering  every  day;  and  learning  of  his 
bitter  mortification  because  he  could  not  hire  a  carriage 
to  take  me  out  to  see  the  curious  old  French  cemetery, 
I  made  him  supremely  happy  by  expressing  a  desire  to 
ride  in  one  of  those  funny  bob-tailed,  mule-drawn  street- 
cars—  the  result  being  a  trip  by  my  mother,  Mr.  Bar- 
rett, and  myself  to  the  famous  cemetery. 

I  don't  know  that  I  ever  heard  anyone  sing  Irish  and 
Scottish  ballads  more  tenderly,  more  pathetically  than 
did  Joe  Barrett,  and  as  my  mother  was  very  fond  of  old 
songs,  he  used  to  sit  and  sing  one  after  another  for  her. 
That  day  there  was  no  one  in  the  crawling  little  car  but 
we  three,  and  presently  he  began  to  sing.  But,  oh,  what 
was  it  that  he  sang?  Irish,  unmistakably  —  a  lament, 
rising  toward  its  close  into  the  keen  of  some  clan.  It 
wrung  the  very  heart. 

"  Don't !  "  I  exclaimed.  My  mother's  face  was  turned 
away,  my  throat  ached,  even  Joe's  eyes  had  filled. 
"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 


210  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

"  I  don't  know  its  name,"  he  answered,  "  I  have  al- 
ways put  it  on  programmes  as  '  A  Lament/  I  learned 
it  from  an  Irish  emigrant-lad,  who  was  from  the  North, 
and  who  was  dying  fast  from  consumption  and  home- 
hunger.  Is  not  that  wail  chilling?  As  he  gave  the  song 
it  seemed  like  a  message  from  the  dying." 

At  the  end  of  our  stroll  among  the  flowers  and  trees 
and  past  those  strange  stone  structures  that  look  so  like 
serious-minded  bake-ovens,  having  to  wait  for  a  car,  we 
sat  on  a  stone  bench,  and  in  that  quiet  city  of  the  dead 
Joe's  voice  rose,  tenderly  reverent,  in  that  simple  air  that 
was  yet  an  anguish  of  longing,  followed  by  a  wail  for 
the  dead. 

My  mother  wept  silently.  I  said,  softly :  "  It's  a 
plaint  and  a  farewell,"  and  Joe  brought  his  eyes  back 
from  the  great  cross,  blackly  silhouetted  against  the 
flaming  sky,  and  slowly  said :  "  Beloved  among  women, 
it  is  a  message  —  a  message  from  the  dying  or  the  dead, 
believe  that." 

And  a  time  came  when  —  well,  when  almost  I  did  be- 
lieve that. 

Later  on,  when  Mr.  Barrett  stood  second  only  to  Mr. 
Booth  in  his  profession,  well  established,  well  off,  well 
dressed,  polished  and  refined  of  manner,  aye,  and  genial, 
too,  to  those  he  liked,  I  came  by  accident  upon  a  most 
gracious  act  of  his  and,  following  it  up,  found  him  deep 
in  a  conspiracy  to  deceive  a  stricken  woman  into  receiv- 
ing the  aid  her  piteous  determination  to  stand  alone  made 
impossible  to  offer  openly.  I  looked  at  the  generous, 
prosperous,  intellectual,  intensely  active  gentleman,  sur- 
rounded by  clever  wife  and  the  pretty,  thoroughly  edu- 
cated daughters,  who  were  chaperoned  in  all  their  walks 
to  and  from  park  or  music-lesson  or  shopping-trip,  and 
I  wondered  at  the  distance  little  "  Larry,"  with  the  heavy 
head  and  frail  body,  had  traveled,  and  bowed  respect- 
fully to  such  magnificent  energy. 

Even  then  there  arose  a  cry  from  the  profession  that 
Mr.  Barrett  was  dictatorial,  that  he  assumed  airs  of  su- 


MRS.  LAWRENCE   BARRETT       211 

periority.  Mr.  Barrett  was  wrapped  up,  soul  and  body, 
in  the  proper  production  of  the  play  in  hand.  He  was 
keenly  observant  and  he  was  sensitive.  When  an  actor 
had  his  mind  fixed  upon  a  smoke  or  a  glass  of  beer,  and 
cared  not  one  continental  dollar  whether  the  play  failed 
or  succeeded,  so  long  as  he  got  his  "  twenty  dollars 
per  — ,"  Mr.  Barrett  knew  it,  and  became  "  dictatorial " 
in  his  effort  to  force  the  man  into  doing  his  work  prop- 
erly. I  worked  with  him,  both  as  a  nobody  and  as  some- 
body, and  I  know  that  an  honest  effort  to  comprehend 
and  carry  out  his  wishes  was  recognized  and  appreciated. 

As  for  his  airs  of  superiority  —  well,  the  fact  is  he 
was  superior  to  many.  He  was  intellectual  and  he  was 
a  student  to  the  day  of  his  death.  When  work  at  the 
theatre  was  over  he  turned  to  study.  He  never  was  well 
acquainted  with  Tom  and  Dick,  nor  yet  with  Harry.  His 
back  fitted  a  lamp-post  badly.  He  would  not  have  known 
how  "  to  jolly  the  crowd."  He  was  not  a  full,  volu- 
minous, and  ready  story-teller  for  the  boys,  who  called  him 
cold  and  hard.  God  knows  he  had  needed  the  coldness 
and  the  so-called  hardness,  or  how  could  he  have  en- 
dured the  privations  of  the  long  journey  from  his  weary 
mother's  side  to  this  position  of  honor. 

Cold,  hard,  dictatorial,  superior?  Well,  there  is  a 
weak  lean-on-somebody  sort  of  woman,  who  will  love 
any  man  who  will  feed  and  shelter  her  —  she  doesn't 
count.  But  when  a  clear-minded,  business-like,  clever 
woman,  a  wife  for  many  years,  loves  her  husband  with 
the  tenderest  sentiment  and  devotion,  I'm  ready  to  wager 
something  that  it  was  tenderness  and  devotion  in  the 
husband  that  first  aroused  like  sentiments  in  the  wife. 

Mrs.  Barrett  was  shrewd,  far-seeing,  business-like  — 
a  devoted  and  watchful  mother,  but  her  love  for  her  hus- 
band had  still  the  freshness,  the  delicate  sentiment  of 
young  wifehood.  When  she  thought  fit,  she  bullied  him 
shamefully ;  when  she  thought  fitter,  she  "  guyed  "  him 
unmercifully.  Think  of  that!  And  it  was  delightful  to 
see  the  great,  solemn-eyed  personification  of  dignity 
smilingly  accepting  her  buffets. 


212  LIFE   ON    THE   STAGE 

But,  oh,  to  hear  that  wife  tell  of  the  sorrows  and  trials 
they  had  faced  together,  of  their  absurd  makeshifts,  of 
their  small  triumphs  over  poverty,  of  Lawrence's  steady 
advance  in  his  profession,  of  that  beautiful  day  when  they 
moved  into  a  little  house  all  by  themselves,  when  he  be- 
came, as  he  laughingly  boasted,  "  a  householder,  not  a 
forlorn,  down-trodden  boarder !  " 

.  Their  family,  besides  themselves,  then  consisted  of  one 
little  girl  and  Lawrence's  beloved  old  mother,  and  he  had 
a  room  to  study  in  in  peace,  and  the  two  women  talked 
and  planned  endlessly  about  curtains  and  furniture,  and 

—  oh,  well,  about  some  more  very  small  garments  that 
would,  God  willing,  be  needed  before  a  very  great  while. 
And  one  day  Lawrence  looked  about  his  little  table,  and 
said :    "  It's  too  good,  it  can't  last,  it  can't !  "  and  the 
women  kissed  him  and  laughed  at  him;   yet  all  the  time 
he  was  right,  it  did  not  last.     An  awful  bolt  seemed  to 
fall  from  the  blue  sky.     It  was  one  of  those  pitiful  dis- 
asters that  sometimes  come  upon  the  very  old  —  par- 
ticularly to  those  who  have  endured  much,  suffered  much, 
as  had  the  elder  Mrs.  Barrett  in  the  past. 

I  wept  as  I  heard  the  story  of  the  devoted  son's  dry- 
eyed  agony,  of  the  awful  fears  his  condition  aroused  in 
the  minds  of  those  close  to  him,  and  then  suddenly  she, 
the  wife,  had  been  stricken  down,  and  her  danger  and 
that  of  the  tiny  babe  had  brought  him  to  his  old  self 
again. 

He  worked  on  then  for  some  months,  grateful  for  the 
sparing  of  his  dear  ones,  when  quite  suddenly  and  pain- 
lessly the  stricken  old  mother  passed  from  sleep  to  life 
everlasting.  Then  when  Joseph  was  to  be  summoned 

—  Joe  who   worshipped  the   mother's   footprint   in   the 
dust  —  he  was  not  to  be  found.     He  had  fallen  again 
into  disgrace,  had  been  discharged,  had  disappeared,  no 
one  knew  whither. 

"Oh,  dear  Father!"  cried  Mrs.  Barrett,  "what  did 
not  Lawrence  suffer  for  Joe !  knowing  what  his  agony 
would  be  when  he  knew  all  —  but  we  could  do  no  more. 


THEIR  MOTHER'S   BURIAL        213 

The  funeral  took  place.  White  as  marble,  Lawrence  sent 
us  all  home,  and  himself  waited  till  the  last  clod  of  earth 
was  piled  upon  the  grave;  then  waited  till  the  men  had 
gone,  waited  to  kneel  and  pray  a  moment  before  leaving 
the  old  mother  there  alone.  And  as  he  knelt  he  noted 
how  nearly  dark  it  was,  and  thought  he  must  not  linger 
long  or  the  gates  would  be  locked  upon  him.  As  he  rose 
from  his  knees,  he  was  startled  to  see,  through  the  dusk, 
a  tall  form  coming  toward  him.  It  would  dodge  behind 
a  monument,  and  after  a  moment's  pause  would  come 
a  little  nearer.  Suddenly  the  drooping,  lurching  figure 
became  familiar  to  him.  With  a  groan  he  hid  himself 
behind  a  tombstone  and  waited  —  waited  until  suspicion 
became  certainty,  and  he  knew  that  the  bent,  weary 
funeral  guest  was  his  brother,  Joe! 

"  He  held  his  peace  until  the  wanderer  found  his  way 
along  the  darkening  path  to  that  pathetic  stretch  of  freshly 
broken  earth,  where,  with  an  exceeding  bitter  cry,  he 
flung  his  arms  above  his  head  and  fell  all  his  length  along 
the  grave  that  held  the  sweetest  and  the  holiest  thing 
God  had  ever  given  him,  an  honest,  loving  mother,  and 
clutched  the  damp  clods  in  his  burning  hands,  and 
gasped  out :  '  Oh,  mother !  I  have  hungered  and  I  have 
tramped  with  the  curse  upon  me,  too;  I  have  hungered 
and  tramped  so  far,  so  far,  hoping  just  to  be  in  time  to 
see  your  dear  face  once  more,  and  now  they've  shut  you 
away  from  me,  from  the  bad  boy  you  never  turned  your 
.patient  eyes  away  from !  Oh,  mother !  whatever  can  I 
do  without  you,  all  alone !  all  alone ! ' 

"  At  that  child-like  cry  from  the  broken  man,  prostrate 
on  the  grave,  Lawrence  Barrett's  heart  turned  to  water, 
and  kneeling  down  he  lifted  to  his  breast  the  tear-blurred, 
drink-blemished  face  of  his  brother,  and  kissed  him  as 
his  mother  might  have  done.  Thus  they  prayed  together 
for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of  their  beloved,  and  then,  with 
his  arm  about  the  wanderer,  to  steady  his  failing  steps, 
Lawrence  led  him  to  his  little  home,  and,  as  they  entered, 
he  turned  and  said :  '  Joe,  can't  you  take  back  those 


214  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

words,  "  all  alone,"  can't  you  ?  '  and  Joe  nodded  his  head, 
and  throwing  his  arms  about  his  brother's  neck,  an- 
swered :  '  Never  alone,  while  my  little  brother  Larry 
lives  and  forgives ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVENTH 

I  play  "Marie"  to  Oblige  —  Mr.  Barrett's  Remarkable 
Call  —  Did  I  Receive  a  Message  from  the  Dying  or  the 
Dead  ? 

FROM  the  time  when,  as  a  ballet-girl,  I  was  called 
forward  and  given  the  part  of  Marie  in  "  The 
Marble  Heart,"  a  play  Mr.  Barrett  was  starring 
in,  to  the  then  distant  day  of  that  really  splendid  com- 
bination with  Mr.  Edwin  Booth,  I  never  saw  the  former 
when  he  was  not  burning  with  excitement  over  some 
production  he  had  in  mind,  if  not  yet  in  rehearsal.  Even 
in  his  sleep  he  saw  perfect  pictures  of  scenery  not  yet 
painted,  just  as  before  "  Ganalon  "  he  used  to  dream  of 
sharp  lance  and  gay  pennon  moving  in  serried  ranks,  of 
long  lines  of  nobles  and  gentlemen  who  wore  the  Cross 
of  the  Crusader. 

His  friends  were  among  the  highest  of  God's  Aris- 
tocracy of  Brains  —  'twas  odd  that  sculptors,  artists, 
poets,  thinkers  should  strike  hands  with  so  "  cold "  a 
man  and  call  him  friend! 

I  remember  well  the  dismayed  look  that  came  upon 
his  face  when  I  was  ordered  from  the  ballet  ranks  to 
take  the  place  of  the  lady  —  a  hard,  high-voiced  sou- 
brette,  who  was  to  have  played  Marie,  had  not  a  sore 
throat  mercifully  prevented  her.  But  at  my  first  "  Thank 
you  —  I'd  rather  go  —  yonder — ,"  pointing  to  the  dis- 
tant convent,  his  eyes  widened,  suddenly  a  sort  of  tremor 
came  to  his  lips.  He  was  at  my  side  in  an  instant,  tell- 
ing me  to  indicate  my  convent  as  on  the  opposite  side, 
so  that  my  own  attitude  would  be  more  picturesque  to 
the  audience.  Between  the  acts  he  said  to  me :  "  Have 
you  any  opinion  of  Marie,  Miss  er  —  er  ?  " 

215 


216  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

"  My  name's  '  just  Clara,'  "  I  kindly  interjected. 

"  Well,"  he  smiled,  "  '  just  Clara/  have  you  formed 
any  idea  of  this  Marie's  character?  " 

"  Why,"  I  answered,  "  to  me  she  seems  a  perfect  walk- 
ing gratitude;  in  real  life  she  would  be  rather  dog-like, 
I'm  afraid;  but  in  the  play  she  is  just  beautiful." 

He  looked  solemnly  at  me,  and  then  he  said :  "  And 
you  are  just  beautiful,  too,  for  you  are  a  little  thinking 
actress.  Now  if  you  have  the  power  of  expressing  what 
you  think,  do  you  know  I  am  very  honestly  interested, 
'  just  Clara,'  in  your  share  of  to-night's  work." 

The  play  went  well  as  a  whole,  and  as  Marie  is  one 
of  the  most  tenderly  pathetic  creations  conceivable,  I  sat 
and  wept  as  I  told  her  story;  but  imagine  my  amaze- 
ment when,  as  Mr.  Barrett  bent  over  my  hand,  a  great 
hot  tear  fell  from  his  cheek  upon  it. 

"  Oh,  my  girl,"  he  said,  when  the  play  was  over, 
"  don't  let  anything  on  God's  footstool  dishearten  you. 
Work!  work!  you  have  such  power,  such  delicacy  of 
expression  with  it  —  you  are  Marie,  the  little  stupidly 
religious,  dog-like  '  Marie  the  resigned,'  that  you  have 
renamed  for  me  '  Marie  the  grateful.' ' 

When  I  was  leading  woman  he  wished  to  do  that  play 
for  a  single  night.  Of  course  Marco  belonged  to  me, 
but  the  big,  handsome,  cold-voiced  second  woman  could 
well  talk  through  Marco,  while  she  would  (artistically 
speaking)  damn  Marie.  Mr.  Barrett  was  very  hungry- 
eyed,  there  was  positive  famine  in  them,  as  he  mourn- 
fully said :  "  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  hear  you  tell 
Marie's  story  again  —  to  see  you  and  your  little  bundle 
and  bandaged  foot.  Such  a  clever  touch  that  —  that 
bandaged  foot,  no  other  Marie  dares  do  that;  but  you 
have  turned  your  back  on  the  '  grateful  one  ' ;  you  can't 
afford  to  do  her  again." 

"  Mr.  Barrett,"  I  asked,  "  do  you  wish  me  to  play 
Marie  now  ?  " 

"  Do  I  wish  it  ?  "  he  echoed,  "  I  wish  it  with  all  my 
heart,  but  I  have  no  right  to  ask  a  sacrifice  from  you, 


PLAYING   "MARIE"   FOR  BARRETT    217 

even  if  it  would  benefit  the  whole  performance,  as  well 
as  give  me  a  personal  pleasure." 

"  If  the  manager  does  not  object,"  I  said,  "  I  am  quite 
willing  to  give  up  the  leading  part  and  play  Marie  again." 

He  held  my  hands,  he  fairly  stammered  for  a  moment, 
then  he  said :  "  You  are  an  artiste  and  a  brave  and  gen- 
erous girl.  I  shall  remember  this  action  of  yours,  '  just 
Clara,'  always." 

The  amazed  manager,  after  some  objection,  having 
consented,  I  once  more  put  on  the  rusty  black  gown,  took 
my  small  bundle,  and  asked  of  the  gay  ladies  from  Paris 
my  way  to  the  convent,  yonder  —  finding  in  the  tears  of 
the  audience  and  the  excellence  of  the  general  perform- 
ance, full  reward  for  playing  second  fiddle  that  evening. 

In  my  early  married  days,  when  the  great  coffee-urn 
was  still  a  menace  to  my  composure  and  dignity,  at  a 
little  home-dinner,  when  Mr.  William  Black,  the  famous 
writer  of  Scottish  novels,  honored  me  by  his  presence 
on  my  right,  Mr.  Barrett  on  my  left,  moved,  no  one 
knows  by  what  freak  of  memory,  lifted  his  glass,  and, 
speaking  low,  said :  ' ' '  Just  Clara,'  your  health !  " 

I  laughed  a  little,  and  was  nodding  back,  when  Mr. 
Black,  who  saw  everything  through  those  glasses  of  his, 
cried  out :  "  Favoritism,  favoritism  !  why,  bless  my  heart, 
I  drank  your  health  ten  minutes  ago,  and  you  never 
blushed  a  blush  for  me !  And  I  am  chief  guest,  and  on 
the  right  hand  of  the  hostess  —  explanations  are  now  in 
order!" 

And  Mr.  Barrett  said  that  he  would  explain  on  their 
way  to  the  club,  whereupon  Mr.  Black  wrinkled  up  his 
nose  delightedly,  and  said  he  "  scented  a  story "  — 
"  and,  oh,"  he  cried,  "  it's  the  sweetest  scent  in  the  world, 
the  most  fascinating  trail  to  follow !  " 

But  I  was  thankful  that  he  did  not  hunt  down  his 
quarry  then  and  there,  for  he  could  be  as  mischievous  as 
a  squirrel  and  as  persistent  as  any  enfant  terrible,  if  he 
thought  you  were  depriving  him  of  a  story. 

Though  tears  creep  into  my  eyes  at  the  same  moment, 


218  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

yet  must  I  laugh  whenever  I  think  of  Mr.  Barrett's  last 
"  call "  upon  me.  We  were  unknowingly  stopping  in 
the  same  hotel.  On  the  way  to  the  dining-room  for  a 
bit  of  lunch,  Mr.  Harriott  and  Mr.  Barrett  met,  ex- 
changed greetings,  and  when  the  latter  found  I  was  not 
going  to  luncheon,  and  was  moreover  suffering  from  a 
most  severe  attack  of  neuralgia,  he  asked  if  he  could  not 
call  upon  me  for  a  few  moments. 

Mr.  Harriott  looked  doubtful,  and  while  he  hesitated, 
Mr.  Barrett  hastily  added :  "  Of  course  I  shall  merely 
say  '  How  do  you  do/  and  express  my  sympathy,  since 
I  know  something  about  neuralgia  myself  —  that's  all." 

Upon  which  they  turned  back,  and  Mr.  Harriott  ush- 
ered the  unexpected,  the  spick-and-span  caller  into  my 
presence,  with  the  reassuring  word :  "  Mr.  Barrett  is 
sparing  a  moment  or  two  of  his  time,  Clara,  to  express 
his  sympathy  for  you." 

When  a  woman  knows  she  is  an  "  object,"  words  of 
welcome  for  the  unexpected  visitor  are  apt  to  come  halt- 
ingly from  the  tongue,  and  that  I  was  an  "  object "  no 
one  can  deny.  A  loose,  pink  dressing-gown  was  bad,  a 
knit  white  shawl  huddled  about  the  shoulders  was  worse, 
but,  oh,  worst  of  all,  my  hair  was  all  scrambled  up  to 
the  top  of  my  head  (hair  was  dressed  low  then),  and  a 
broad  handkerchief  bandage  concealed  from  the  eye,  but 
not  from  the  nose,  the  presence  of  a  remedial  poultice  of 
flour  and  brandy. 

Truly  it  is  such  acts  as  this  that  brings  many  a  well- 
meaning  but  apparently  demented  husband  into  the  di- 
vorce court.  Now  any  friend,  relative,  or  servant  would 
have  bravely  but  politely  prevaricated  to  the  last  gasp 
rather  than  have  admitted  a  caller  to  me  in  that  state, 
but  husbands  have  no  discretion,  husbands  have  no  — 
well,  that's  too  large  a  contract,  so  I'll  keep  to  that  call. 

I  was  aghast  for  a  moment,  but  the  warm  pressure  of 
Mr.  Barrett's  hand,  his  brightening  eye  gave  me  such 
an  impression  of  sincerity  in  his  pleased  greeting  that  I' 
forgot  I  was  an  "  object,"  and  asked  him  to  sit  down 


MR.  BARRETT'S  AFTERNOON  CALL  219 

for  a  chat,  as  eagerly  as  though  I  had  had  all  my  war- 
paint on. 

We  were  soon  exchanging  memories  of  the  past,  and 
Mr.  Harriott,  having  a  business  engagement  ahead,  ex- 
cused himself  and  withdrew.  Mr.  Barrett,  calling  after 
him :  "  I'll  join  you  in  a  moment,"  resumed  his  conver- 
sation. There  still  stood  on  the  table  a  pot  of  tea  and  a 
plate  holding  two  pieces  of  toast.  They  had  been  meant 
for  my  lunch,  but  neuralgia  had  the  call,  and  lunch  had 
been  ignored ;  so,  as  we  talked  on  and  on,  presently  Mr. 
Barrett,  seeing  my  bandage  sliding  down  over  my  eyes, 
rose,  and,  without  pausing  in  his  rapid  description  of  a 
certain  picture  he  had  seen  abroad  in  its  creator's  studio, 
he  passed  behind  me,  tightened  the  knot  of  the  handker- 
chief, put  the  sofa-pillow  behind  my  head,  a  stool  under 
my  feet,  and  resumed  his  seat. 

Then  I  talked  and  talked,  and  grew  excited,  then 
thirsty.  I  drew  the  tray  nearer  and  poured  out  a  cup 
of  tea. 

"  Give  me  some,"  said  Mr.  Barrett,  who  was  now  tell- 
ing me  about  a  sitting  of  Parliament  in  London. 

"  Let  me  order  some  that's  fresh,"  I  replied. 

"  No,  no !  "  he  cried,  impatiently,  "  that  will  be  such 
an  interruption  —  no,  no !  " 

I  gave  him  then  a  cup  of  cold  tea.  Presently  I  broke 
off  a  bit  of  the  stiff  and  repellant  toast,  with  its  chilled, 
pale  gleam  of  butter,  and  nibbled  it.  His  hand  went 
forth  and  broke  off  a  bit  also.  We  were  on  a  new  poem 
then,  and  Mr.  Barrett  seemed  thrilling  to  his  finger-tips 
with  the  delight  of  it.  He  repeated  lines;  I  questioned 
his  reading;  we  experimented,  placing  emphasis  first  on 
this  word,  then  on  that.  We  generally  agreed,  but  we 
came  an  awful  cropper  over  Gladstone. 

How  fiercely  we  clashed  over  the  grand  old  man  those 
who  knew  Mr.  Barrett  will  guess  from  the  fact  that  dur- 
ing the  fray  he  excitedly  undid  two  buttons  of  his  tight 
frock-coat.  The  ends  of  his  white  silk  muffler  now  hung 
down  his  back,  fluttering  when  he  moved  like  a  small 


220  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

pair  of  white  wings.  I  have  a  recollection,  too,  of  his 
rising,  and,  apparently  unconscious  of  his  act,  lighting 
the  gas,  while  he  passionately  demanded  of  me  the  rea- 
son why  Dickens  could  not  create  a  real  woman. 

At  last  we  came  up  hard  and  fast  against  Hamlet. 
The  air  was  thick  with  stories.  Part  of  the  time  we 
talked  together  in  our  eagerness.  Mr.  Barrett's  coat  was 
quite  unbuttoned ;  the  Curl  on  his  wide  brow  had  grown 
as  frizzly  as  any  common  curl  might  grow.  Two  round, 
red  spots  spread  over  his  high  cheek-bones,  his  eyes  were 
hungrily  glowing;  he  had  just  taken  a  long  breath  and 
made  a  start  on  an  audience  with  the  Pope,  when  Mr. 
Harriott  entered  and  said :  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. 
Barrett,  there's  a  man  outside  who  is  very  anxiously 
inquiring  for  you." 

"  For  me  ? "  exclaimed  Mr.  Barrett,  with  astonish- 
ment, "  that's  rather  impertinent,  it  seems  to  me !  " 

Suddenly  he  noticed  the  gas-light.  He  started  vio- 
lently, he  pulled  out  his  watch,  then  sprang  to  his  feet, 
crying :  "  Good  God !  Harriott,  that's  my  dresser  look- 
ing for  me  —  I  ought  to  be  in  my  dressing-room.  What 
will  Mr.  Booth  think  has  become  of  me,  and  what,  in 
heaven's  name,  do  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

He  hastily  buttoned  himself  into  rigidity,  rescued  the 
flying  ends  of  his  muffler,  and  holding  my  hands  for  a 
moment,  he  laughed:  "You  are  not  only  'just  Clara,' 
but  you  are  the  only  Clara  that  would  make  me  so  utterly 
forgetful  of  all  rules  of  etiquette.  Forgive,  and  good- 
by ! "  and  he  made  an  astonishingly  hasty  exit. 

That  "call,"  that  lasted  from  one  till' seven,  with  the 
accompanying  picture  of  the  stately  Lawrence  Barrett 
drinking  cold  tea  and  eating  stiff  cold  toast,  while  he 
talked  brilliantly  of  all  things  under  heaven,  is  one  of  my 
quaintest  memories. 

One  loves  to  think  of  those  years  of  his  close  relations 
with  Mr.  Booth.  Artistically,  the  combination  was  an 
ideal  one;  commercially,  it  was  a  most  successful  one; 
while  it  certainly  brought  out  qualities  of  gentleness 


BOOTH   AND   BARRETT  221 

and  devotion  in  Mr.  Barrett  that  the  public  had  not  ac- 
credited him  with. 

The  position  of  manager  and  co-star  was  a  difficult 
one,  and  only  Barrett's  loving  comprehension  of  Booth's 
peculiarities,  as  well  as  his  greatness,  made  that  position 
tenable.  Mr.  Booth  loathed  business  details;  he  was 
sorrowful  and  weary;  he  had  tasted  all  the  sweets  the 
world  had  to  offer,  but  only  their  under  tang  of  bitter- 
ness was  left  upon  his  lips.  He  had  grown  coldly  indif- 
ferent to  the  call  of  the  public,  but  Mr.  Barrett  believed 
that  under  this  ash  of  lassitude  there  still  glowed  the 
clear  fire  of  genius,  and  when  they  went  forth  to  try 
their  great  experiment,  Mr.  Booth  found  himself  re- 
spected, honored,  guarded  as  any  woman  might  have 
been.  He  was  asked  no  questions  about  scene  or  scenery, 
about  play  or  percentage  —  his  privacy  and  peace  were 
ever  of  the  first  consideration.  Mr.  Barrett  was  his 
agent,  manager,  stage-manager,  friend,  co-worker,  and 
dramatic  guardian  angel  —  all  he  asked  of  him  in  re- 
turn was  to  act. 

And  how  splendidly  Mr.  Booth  responded  the  public 
can  well  remember.  As  he  said  laughingly  to  a  friend, 
at  the  end  of  the  first  season :  "  Good  work,  eh  ?  well, 
why  should  I  not  do  good  work,  after  all  Barrett  has 
done  for  me.  Why,  I  never  knew  what  c-o-m-f-o-r-t 
spelled  before.  I  arrive  —  someone  says :  '  Here's  your 
room,  Mr.  Booth.'  I  go  in  and  smoke.  At  night,  some- 
one says :  '  Here's  your  dressing- room,  sir/  and  I  go  in 
and  dress,  yes,  and  smoke,  and  then  act.  That's  all,  ab- 
solutely all  that  I  have  to  do,  except  to  put  out  my  hand 
and  take  my  surprisingly  big  share  of  the  receipts  now 
and  then.  Good  work,  eh?  well,  I'll  give  him  the  best 
that's  in  me,  he  deserves  it." 

And  in  the  beautiful  friendship  that  grew  up  between 
the  melancholy,  gentle  Booth  and  the  nervously  energetic 
Barrett  I  believe  each  gave  to  the  other  the  best  that 
was  in  him. 

Before  leaving  the  Barretts  I  should  like  to  mention 


222  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

an  odd  happening  connected  with  Joe  and  my  visit  to 
New  Orleans,  where  the  theatre  was  under  the  manage- 
ment of  Lawrence  Barrett  and  Mr.  Rogers.  The  com- 
pany had  taken  for  me  one  of  those  quick  likings  peculiar 
to  our  people;  principally,  I  think,  because  being  a 
temporary  star  (by  the  grace  of  Mr.  Daly's  will)  they 
had  expected  me  to  be  haughtily  dictatorial,  instead  of 
shy  to  the  point  of  misery,  and  because  of  their  mistake 
they  treated  me  like  a  long-sought  sister,  instead  of  the 
stranger  I  was. 

^They  publicly  presented  me  with  a  gift  on  my  last 
night,  and  almost  in  a  body  saw  my  mother  and  myself 
off  on  our  Sunday  night  start  for  home.  Everyone  had 
left  the  car  but  big,  hearty  Joe  Barrett  —  he  still  clung 
silently  to  my  hands,  though  my  mother  begged  him  to 
go  before  he  met  with  an  injury.  The  train  was  out  of 
the  depot  —  the  speed  increasing  rapidly,  before  he 
dropped  off,  safely  landing  just  beneath  a  light,  high 
above  his  head.  His  hat  was  off,  his  empty  hand  held 
out  toward  me,  and  in  that  light  his  face  was  as  the  face 
of  the  sorrowful  dead.  It  chilled  me,  all  my  high  spirits 
flattened  down  suddenly ;  I  turned,  and  said :  "  Did  you 
see,  mother  ?  "  and  she  answered :  "  It  was  the  light,  and 
his  unhappiness,  that  made  him  look  so  like  a  —  so  sad," 
so  I  knew  she  had  seen  him  as  I  had. 

Our  journey  was  saddened  by  an  accident,  and  when 
the  train  backed  to  take  up  the  creature  it  had  crushed, 
not  knowing  what  had  happened,  by  chance  I  glanced 
down  from  the  window,  full  into  the  face  of  the  victim 
as  they  bore  him  past.  He  had  been  a  large,  broad- 
shouldered  man,  and  the  still,  white  face  was  so  like  Bar- 
rett's that  I  almost  fainted.  Everyone  in  the  car  seemed 
to  feel  some  measure  of  culpability  for  the  mishap ;  and 
at  every  unusual  jolt  or  jar  we  looked  with  frightened 
eyes  from  the  windows,  dreading  lest  another  stretcher 
might  be  borne  into  view.  At  last  we  were  at  home,  and 
in  work  I  regained  my  usual  spirits. 

A  few  weeks,  three  or  four,  had  passed.     One  morn- 


JOE  BARRETT'S   LAMENT         223 

ing  I  awakened  myself  from  a  dreamless  sleep  by  my 
own  singing.  I  faced  the  blank  wall.  I  smiled  sleepily 
at  the  absurdity  of  the  thing,  then  I  grew  more  awake, 
and  as  I  sang  on,  I  said  to  myself :  "  What  is  it  —  why, 
what  can  it  be,  that  I  am  singing  ?  " 

There  were  no  words  to  this  mournful,  heart-breaking 
air,  that  ended  with  a  wail,  long  and  weird. 

"  Mother,"  I  called,  the  door  being  open  between  our 
rooms,  "  Mother,  did  you  hear  me  singing  just  now?" 

"  Well,  yes,"  she  replied,  "  since  I  am  not  deaf,  I  heard 
you  very  plainly." 

"  Oh,"  I  cried,  "  can  you  tell  me  what  it  was  I  sang  ?  " 

My  mother  raised  her  head  and  looked  in  at  me  sur- 
prisedly :  "  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  child  — 
aren't  you  awake,  that  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
doing  ?  You  were  singing  '  the  lament '  Joe  Barrett 
sang  in  the  French  cemetery." 

"  Oh !  "  I  cried,  in  late-coming  recognition,  "  you  are 
right."  I  scrambled  up,  and  thrusting  back  my  hair  from 
my  face,  started  to  sing  it  again,  and  lo !  not  a  note  could 
I  catch.  Again  and  again  I  tried;  I  shut  my  eyes  and 
strove  to  recall  that  wail  —  no  use.  Then,  remembering 
what  a  memory  my  mother  had  for  airs  heard  but  once 
or  twice,  I  called :  "  Dear,  can't  you  start  '  the  lament ' 
for  me,  I  have  lost  it  entirely?" 

She  opened  her  lips,  paused,  looked  surprised,  then 
said,  positively :  "  I  might  never  have  heard  it,  I  can't 
get  either  its  beginning  or  ending." 

I  sprang  from  the  bed,  and  in  bare,  unslippered  feet, 
ran  to  the  piano  in  the  front  room  —  no  use;  I  never 
again  heard,  waking  or  sleeping,  another  note  of  "  the 
lament." 

Mother  called  out  presently :  "  Do  you  know  what  time 
it  is?  Go  back  and  finish  your  sleep,  it's  not  quite  six 
o'clock." 

As  I  obediently  returned  to  my  room,  I  said,  in  a 
troubled  voice :  "  What  do  you  suppose  it  means,  moth- 
er? "  and  as  she  snuggled  her  head  back  upon  her  pillow, 


224  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

she  laughingly  answered :  "  Oh,  I  suppose  it's  a  sign 
you  are  going  to  hear  from  Joe  Barrett  soon.  If  you 
do,  I  hope  it  won't  be  anything  bad,  poor  fellow !  "  for 
mother  liked  the  "  big  Irish  boy,"  as  she  called  him. 

I  fell  asleep  again,  but  was  up  and  ready  at  nine  for 
our  rather- foreign  breakfast  of  coffee,  rolls,  and  salad. 
Now  in  our  partnership  mother  was  mistress  of  the  house, 
and  I,  doing  the  outside  work,  being  the  wage- winner, 
was  the  man  of  the  house,  and  as  such  had  the  master's 
inalienable  right  to  the  morning  paper  with  my  coffee. 
That  the  mistress  occasionally  peeped  at  the  headlines 
before  the  master  rose  was  a  fact  judiciously  ignored  by 
both,  so  long  as  the  paper  was  ever  found  neatly  folded 
beside  the  waiting  coffee-cup.  Imagine  then  my  surprise 
when,  coming  into  the  room,  I  found  my  mother  sitting  at 
table  with  the  badge  of  authority  in  her  own  hands,  and 
my  cup  standing  shorn  of  all  its  dignity.  She  avoided  my 
eye,  and  hastily  pouring  coffee,  said :  "  Drink  it  while 
it's  hot,  dear,  and  —  and  I'll  just  glance  at  the  paper  a 
moment." 

I  sat  back  and  stared,  and  I  was  just  beginning  to 
laugh  at  our  small  comedy  when  I  discovered  that 
mother,  she  of  the  rock-steady  nerves,  was  trembling. 
Without  looking  up,  she  said  again :  "  Drink  your  cof- 
fee —  I'll  give  you  the  paper  presently." 

I  sipped  a  little  and  watched.  She  was  not  reading  a 
line.  I  put  down  the  cup.  "  Mother,"  said  I,  "  is  there 
anything  in  that  paper  that  will  interest  me  ?  " 

She  looked  up  hastily :  "  Drink  your  coffee,  and 
I'll " 

"Is  there?"  I  broke  in. 

Tears  rose  in  her  eyes.  "  Y-y-yes,"  she  stammered, 
"  there  is  something  here  that  will  interest  —  rather  that 
will  grieve  you,  but  if  you  would  please  take  youp 
coffee!" 

I  caught  up  the  cup  and  emptied  it  at  a  draught,  then 
held  out  my  hand.  Mother  gave  me  the  paper  and  left 
the  room ;  as  her  first  sob  reached  my  ear,  I  read :  "  Sud- 


THE   DEATH   OF   POOR  JOE      225 

den  death  of  the  actor,  Joseph  Barrett."  I  sat  staring 
stupidly,  and  before  I  saw  another  word  there  came  to 
my  ears  the  shivering  of  leaves,  and  a  grave  voice,  say- 
ing :  "  It  is  a  message  from  the  dying  or  —  the  dead  — 
believe  that." 

"What,"  I  asked,  dully,  "what  is  a  message?"  and 
then  the  blood  chilled  at  my  heart  as  I  recalled  "  the 
lament,"  Joe  had  said :  "  It  is  a  message  from  the  dying 
—  or  the  dead." 

After  rehearsal,  Mr.  Daly  wished  to  see  me  in  his  bit 
of  a  staircase-office  in  front  of  the  house.  He  desired 
help  in  deciding  about  several  scenes  he  meant  to  have 
built  from  old  engravings.  Suddenly  he  came  to  a  stand- 
still. "  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  he  cried ;  "  where 
are  your  splendid  spirits  ?  you  have  been  absent  and  heavy 
all  morning  —  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  much,"  I  began,  when  he  angrily  inter- 
rupted :  "  For  heaven's  sake,  spare  me  that  senseless  an- 
swer. If  you  won't  tell  me,  say  so.  Refuse  me  your 
confidence,  if  you  choose,  but  don't  treat  me  as  though 
I  were  a  fool  by  saying  nothing,  when  you  look  as  if 
you'd  seen  &  ghost !  " 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  I  cried,  and  astonished  my  irate  man- 
ager by  bursting  into  tears.  He  instantly  became  gentle, 
and  forcing  a  thimbleful  of  Chartreuse  (which  I  loath) 
upon  me,  he  once  more  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

And  then  I  told  him  of  the  dying  emigrant  —  of  Joe's 
feeling  for  me  —  of  the  singing  of  "  the  lament,"  and 
at  Joe's  words :  "  It's  a  message  from  the  dying,  or  the 
dead." 

Mr.  Daly's  fingers  trembled  like  aspen  leaves,  his  eyes 
dilated  to  perfect  blackness,  and  almost  he  whispered  the 
words:  "Well,  child  —  well ?" 

I  told  of  the  song,  begun  in  sleep,  continued  in  wake- 
fulness  to  its  wailing  end,  and  then  lost  —  utterly  lost! 
And  leaning  his  pale  face  eagerly  toward  me,  Mr.  Daly 
exclaimed :  "  He  proved  his  words,  good  God !  don't 
you  see  that  —  that  air  was  his  message  to  you  ?  a  mes- 


226  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

sage  from  the  dying  or  the  dead ! "  his  ringers  nervously 
sought  the  little  amulet  he  wore. 

"  But,"  I  objected,  "  he  had  been  dead  many  hours 
before  the  song  came  to  me?" 

When,  with  the  utmost  conviction,  he  instantly  an- 
swered :  "  Think  how  far  you  were  asunder  —  what  a 
distance  he  had  to  come  to  you ! " 

Being  a  very  practical  young  person,  a  smile  was  ris- 
ing to  my  lips,  but  a  glance  into  his  earnest  eyes,  that 
had  become  strange  and  mystic,  checked  it. 

"  I  shall  tell  Father  D— y  of  this,"  he  said,  half  to  him- 
self, then,  looking  at  me,  he  added :  "  The  man  loved  you 
greatly,  whatever  he  may  have  been,  for  you  have  re- 
ceived his  message  —  whether  it  came  from  the  man 
dying  or  the  man  dead.  Go  home,  child;  never  mind 
about  the  scenes  to-day  —  go  home !  " 

And  with  that  weird  idea  firmly  fixed  in  his  mind,  he 
dismissed  me. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHTH 

I  accept  an  Engagement  with  Mr.  Macaulay  for  Cincin- 
nati as  Leading  Lady — My  Adieus  to  Cleveland — Mr. 
Ellsler  Presents  Me  with  a  Watch. 

AFTER  years  of  weary  waiting,  years  of  patient 
work,    1    had    reached    the    position    of    juvenile 
leads  de  jure,  but  of  general  hack  de  facto,  and 
then,   lacking  as  my  character  was  in   the  element  of 
"  push,"  even  /  could  see  plainly  that  I  was  throwing 
away  myself  and  my  chances  in  life  by  remaining  in  a 
position  where  I  faced  the  sign  of  "  No  thoroughfare." 

That  Mrs.  Ellsler  would  retain  the  leading  business 
while  her  husband  retained  a  theatre  was  certain.  I  knew 
positively  that  some  of  Cleveland's  leading  business  men, 
sturdy  supporters  of  the  theatre,  finding  that  their  mildly 
expressed  dissatisfaction  with  the  make-up  of  the  com- 
pany was  ignored,  had  written  and  plainly  asked  for  a 
change,  just  as  Mr.  Ellsler,  every  two  years,  changed  the 
comedian,  leading  man,  etc.,  etc.  They  declared  that  his 
business  would  double  in  consequence;  and  this  was 
submitted  with  the  kindliest  intentions  and  no  wish  to 
wound  anyone,  etc.,  and  they  were,  with  great  respect  — 
various  business  men. 

At  all  events,  when  the  letter  had  produced  embar- 
rassed discomfort  in  one  quarter  and  fierce  anger  in  an- 
other, it  became  inactive.  I  rightly  judged  that  the  "  No 
thoroughfare  "  sign  was  permanent  —  there  was  no  fur- 
ther advancement  possible  in  that  theatre;  therefore  I 
rejoiced  greatly  when  I  had  an  engagement  offered  me, 
even  though,  for  reasons  touching  the  reputation  of  the 
manager  who  wrote,  I  refused  it  —  still  an  offer  of  lead- 
ing business  heartened  me,  and  I  felt  gratefully  sure  some 

227 


228  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

star  had  spoken  a  kind  word  in  my  behalf.  There  was 
so  much  hanging  upon  that  possible  engagement,  too; 
it  meant  more  than  advancement  professionally,  more 
than  gratified  ambition.  Never  yet  had  I  been  able  to 
go  beyond  the  taking  care  of  myself  and  lending  a  help- 
ing hand  in  sickness  to  my  mother;  while,  to  my  un- 
sleeping distress,  my  bitter  mortification,  she  had  still 
to  work.  We  were  still  apart,  save  for  my  regular  weekly 
visit,  and  such  a  small  increase  in  salary  would  have 
made  it  possible  for  us  to  live  together,  after  a  manner, 
in  a  very  small  way,  but  we  would  rather  have  been  half 
alive  and  together  than  have  thrilled  with  superabundant 
vitality  while  separated. 

As  my  services  had  never  seemed  to  be  regarded  seri- 
ously by  anyone  but  the  star  of  the  especial  occasion,  I 
was  not  utterly  taken  aback  when  I  found  my  intention  of 
stepping  bravely  out  into  the  big  world  received  with 
surprise  and  cold  disapproval.  Really,  I  was  almost  con- 
vinced that  I  had  still  the  very  a-b-abs  of  my  business 
yet  to  learn,  that  I  was  rash  and  headstrong  and  all 
puffed  up  with  strange,  unseemly  vanity;  but  just  as  I 
was  sinking  back  to  that  "  old-slipper  "  state  of  mind  de- 
sired, a  letter  came  from  the  well-known,  thoroughly 
established  actor-manager,  Mr.  Barney  Macaulay,  who 
offered  me  the  leading  business  at  Wood's  Museum, 
Cincinnati,  O. 

The  salary  was  very  small,  but  I  understood  perfectly 
that  any  manager  would  offer  as  small  a  salary  to  any 
actress  whose  first  season  it  was  as  leading  woman. 

Oh,  my!  oh,  my!  but  there  followed  a  period  of 
scant  sunshine,  of  hot  argument,  of  cold  and  cautious 
advice,  of  terrifying  hints  of  lacking  qualities.  Want  of 
dignity,  of  power,  of  authority!  The  managerial  forces 
were  winning  all  along  the  line  of  argument,  when,  like 
many  another  combatant  who  faces  annihilation,  I  took 
a  desperate  chance;  I  called  up  every  dissatisfied  speech 
of  my  absent  mother,  every  complaint,  regret,  reproach, 
every  word  of  disappointment,  of  vexation,  of  urging, 


I   LEAVE  MR.  ELLSLER  229 

of  goading,  of  stern  command,  and  arming  these  words 
with  parental  authority  I  mounted  them  upon  a  mother's 
fierce  wrath,  and  thus,  as  cavalry,  recklessly  hurled  them 
at  full  charge  upon  the  enemy's  line.  I  had  no  infantry 
of  proof  to  support  my  cavalry's  move,  it  was  sheer  des- 
peration; but  Fortune  is  a  fickle  jade,  she  sprang  sud- 
denly to  my  side.  The  managerial  lines  broke  before 
the  mother's  charge,  and  before  he  had  them  reformed 
I  had  written  Mr.  Macaulay  that  I  was  ready  to  con- 
sider to  accept  the  offered  engagement,  if,  etc.,  etc.,  and 
then  put  on  my  hat  and  jacket  and  went  forth  and 
cleverly  showed,  first  the  offered  engagement  to  arouse 
my  victimized  parent's  hopes,  then  descanted  upon  the 
opposition  offered  to  my  acceptance  of  it,  and  when  she 
was  warmed  with  indignation  I  confessed  to  using  her 
as  my  principal  weapon  —  even  admitted  making  up 
some  speeches,  and  being  hot  and  pleased,  indignant  and 
proud,  she  forgave  me,  and  I  bit  my  lips  hard  to  keep 
silence  about  a  great  hope  that  she  might  possibly  go 
with  me  to  that  new  engagement;  but,  to  spare  her  a 
possible  disappointment,  I  held  my  peace. 

Later,  when  everything  was  seemingly  settled  and  only 
the  contract  left  to  sign,  came  the  amazing  suggestion 
from  Mr.  Macaulay,  that,  because  of  my  youth,  I  would 
undoubtedly  be  perfectly  willing  to  let  him  reserve  a  few 
heavy  parts  for  his  wife's  acting.  It  is  quite  needless  for 
me  to  explain  that  the  few  parts  to  be  reserved  were  the 
choicest  of  the  legitimate  drama.  And  then  an  amusing 
thing  came  to  pass.  I,  who  was  so  lacking  in  self-con- 
fidence, so  backward  and  retiring,  so  easily  cast  down  by 
a  look  of  disapprobation,  suddenly  developed  (on  paper) 
an  ability  to  stand  up  for  my  rights  that  was  startling. 
By  return  mail  I  informed  Mr.  Macaulay  that  my  youth 
did  not  affect  me  in  the  manner  he  anticipated;  that  I 
was  not  willing  to  resign  all  those  important  parts  to  an- 
other —  no  matter  whose  wife  that  other  happened  to  be. 

A  long,  argumentative,  soothing  sort  of  letter  came 
back  to  me,  ending  with  the  positive  conviction  that  I 


230  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

would  yield  two  parts  to  his  wife  —  great  pets  of  hers 
they  were,  too,  and  one  of  them  being  Lady  Macbeth,  I 
would  of  course  be  grateful  to  have  it  taken  off  my 
hands,  while  Julia,  in  "  The  Hunchback,"  had  really  come 
to  be  considered,  in  Cincinnati,  as  Miss  Johnson's  special 
property  —  Miss  Rachael  Johnson  being  the  stage  name 
of  Mrs.  Macaulay. 

Had  he  asked  two  parts  in  the  first  place  I  would  have 
granted  them,  but  now  my  blood  was  up  (on  paper,  mind 
you),  and  with  swift  decision  I  boldly  threw  the  engage- 
ment up,  declaring  I  would  be  the  leading  woman  or 
nothing.  For,  you  see,  I  had  been  in  the  frying-pan  of 
one  family  theatre  all  my  dramatic  life,  and  I  was  not 
willing  to  throw  myself  at  once  into  the  fire  of  another 
one. 

The  next  letter  contained  a  great  surprise:  a  couple 
of  signed  contracts  and  a  pleasant  request  for  me  too 
to  sign  both  and  return  one  immediately.  Then  the  writer 
quite  gently  regretted  my  inability  to  grant  his  request, 
but  closed  by  expressing  his  respect  for  my  firmness  in 
demanding  my  rights;  and  straightway  I  signed  my 
first  contract ;  went  out  and  mailed  one  copy,  and  when 
I  returned  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  take  the  great 
risk  —  I  had  decided  that  my  mother  should  never  again 
receive  commands  from  anyone.  That  my  shoulders 
were  strong  enough  to  bear  the  welcome  burden,  and 
so  we  would  face  the  new  life  and  its  possible  sufferings 
together  —  together,  that  was  the  main  thing. 

As  I  stood  before  the  glass,  smoothing  my  hair,  I 
gravely  bowed  to  my  reflection,  and  said :  "  Accept  my 
congratulations  and  best  wishes,  '  Wood's  leading  lady/  " 
and  then  fell  upon  the  bed  and  sobbed,  as  foolish  nerve- 
strained  women  will ;  because,  you  see,  the  way  had  been 
so  long  and  sometimes  so  hard,  dear  Lord!  so  hard, 
but  by  His  mercy  I  had  won  one  goal  —  I  was  a  leading 
woman ! 

And  then  began  my  good-by  to  the  city  that  I  loved. 
I  had  lived  in  so  many  of  its  streets;  I  had  attended  so 


MEMORIES   OF   CLEVELAND       231 

many  of  its  schools,  and  still  more  of  its  churches.  There 
was  the  great  lake,  too.  I  had  sailed  on  it,  had  been 
wrecked  on  it,  but  against  that  I  set  the  memory  of  those 
days  when,  in  night-gown  bath-dress,  I  reveled  in  its 
blue  waters  on  Fourth  of  July  family  picnics. 

One  church  —  old  Bethel  on  Water  Street  —  I  hated, 
because  the  Sunday-school  superintendent  had  been  a 
hypocrite,  and  we  knew  it,  and  because  in  every  one  of 
its  library  books  the  good  child  died  at  the  end,  which 
was  very  discouraging  to  youthful  minds. 

Another  church,  on  Prospect  Street,  I  loved,  because 
that  Sunday-school  teacher  had  been  so  gentle  and  smil- 
ing and  had  worn  such  pretty  pink  flowers  in  her  bonnet. 

Then  there  was  the  fountain  in  the  square.  I  laughed 
as  I  said  good-by  to  that,  recalling  the  morning  when, 
because  of  a  bad  throat,  I  had  unobservedly,  as  I  sup- 
posed, swallowed  a  powder  (homoeopathic),  and  next 
moment  heard  hurrying  footsteps  behind  me  and  felt  a 
heavy  hand  on  my  shoulder,  while  a  rough  voice  cried: 
"  Where's  the  paper  ?  what  did  you  do  it  for  ?  what's 
your  name?  say,  answer  up,  now,  before  it  gets  hold  of 
you  —  what's  your  name?" 

Frightened  and  bewildered,  'twas  with  difficulty  I  con- 
vinced the  suspicious  policeman  that  I  was  not  attempt- 
ing suicide  by  poison,  but  was  trying  to  cure  a  sore  throat. 
A  theatre  bill-board  was  in  fair  view,  and  my  part  in 
the  play,  which  I  luckily  held  rolled  in  my  hand,  induced 
him  to  let  me  go  to  rehearsal  instead  of  the  station-house ; 
and  while  the  policeman  dispersed  the  crowd  his  own 
error  had  gathered,  I  resolved,  as  I  flew  toward  the  the- 
atre, to  take  no  more  powders  in  public  parks  —  no  mat- 
ter how  empty  they  might  seem  to  be. 

And  then  there  was  the  jail,  and  as  I  nodded  a  good- 
by  at  its  blackened  walls  I  saw  again  that  sunny  morning 
when,  in  greatest  haste,  I  passed  that  way  and  observed, 
coming  toward  me,  three  men  walking  very  closely,  who 
showed  no  intention  of  making  way  for  me  —  which 
made  me  look  at  them  surprisedly.  And  then  the  aston- 


232  LIFE   ON  THE   STAGE 

ishing  beauty  of  the  tall,  white-clothed  central  figure 
brought  me  to  a  halt.  His  ruddy  features  were  as  severely 
perfect  as  those  stamped  on  an  ancient  coin.  His  glit- 
tering hair  and  mustache  were  of  that  pale  and  precious 
gold  most  often  seen  crowning  a  baby's  head.  His  fig- 
ure was  tall,  broad-shouldered,  small-waisted,  and  his 
hands,  good  God!  I  whispered,  and  stopped  there,  for 
he  wore  the  hand-cuffs,  and  on  either  side  of  him  a  strong 
and  grimy  hand  gripped  his  arm.  That  was  why  they 
made  no  room  for  me;  and  as  I  swerved  swiftly  out 
into  the  middle  of  the  street  to  pass  them  by,  there  came 
a  glitter  of  bold  blue  eyes,  a  flash  of  white  teeth,  and  a 
deep  voice  cried  back  to  me :  "  I'm  awfully  sorry ;  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  and  then  they  wheeled  inside  the  iron 
gates,  and  five  minutes  later  I  knew  the  physically  splen- 
did creature  I  had  seen  was  that  Dr.  Hughes  who  had 
just  been  taken  for  the  murder  of  his  victim  (of  a  mock 
marriage),  poor  little  sixteen-year-old  Tamsie  Parsons 
—  she  of  the  curly  head,  but  steel-firm  mouth,  who  loved 
passionately  this  God-like  devil,  yet  had  the  moral  cour- 
age to  resist  him  to  the  death. 

And  then  the  post-office  was  quite  full  of  memories. 
One  made  my  brow  grow  moist,  even  after  years  had 
passed  since  the  damp  autumn  day  when,  as  a  child,  I 
had  let  fall  upon  the  stone  floor  a  good  large  bottle  of 
benzine.  The  crushed  thing,  wrapped  nicely  in  blue 
paper,  lay  there,  innocent  to  behold,  while  its  escaping 
volatile  contents  got  in  some  really  fine  work.  First, 
two  ladies  held  their  noses,  then  a  fierce  old  be-whiskered 
man  looked  about  suspiciously,  working  his  offended 
member  just  as  a  dog  would.  Then  two  men  hurrying 
in  opposite  directions,  but  with  their  eyes  turned  up  in- 
quiringly toward  the  gas-fixture  overhead,  collided  vio- 
lently, and  instead  of  apologizing,  each  abused  the  other 
as  a  blundering  idiot,  and  wrinkling  up  their  noses  dis- 
gustedly, unlocked  their  boxes,  and  still  grumbling  went 
their  ways,  one  declaring  that  the  gas  being  wasted  there 
was  sufficient  to  illuminate  the  whole  building.  Then 


MINDING   HIS   P'S   AND  Q'S        233 

doors  began  to  open  violently,  and  pale  men  in  office 
coats  of  alpaca  darted  out  and  ran  about,  frantically  try- 
ing to  turn  off  gas  that  was  not  turned  on;  and  there  I 
stood,  shivering  over  the  innocent  blue  package,  very  wet 
by  that  time,  with  my  fear  of  a  whipping  for  breaking 
the  bottle  losing  itself  in  the  greater  terror  of  some  swift 
public  expiation  of  my  fault.  The  unknown  is  always 
terrifying,  and  I  strove  in  vain  to  imagine  what  the  pun- 
ishment would  be  for  creating  evil  odors  in  a  public 
building  that  brought  postal  clerks  from  their  work  in 
pursuit  of  them.  But  the  sight  of  a  policeman  advancing 
toward  the  delivery  window  suddenly  set  me  in  motion, 
and  with  a  bound  I  was  out  of  the  door  and  running 
like  mad  for  a  (then)  Kinsman  Street  car.  I  wonder 
yet  if  that  gas  leak  was  ever  properly  located. 

Another  day  I  had  been  sent  for  an  advertised  letter, 
and  as  several  grown-ups  were  ahead  of  me  at  the  little 
window,  I  withdrew  to  lean  against  the  wall  and  rest  a 
bit  while  waiting,  for  I  had  walked  far  and  was  very 
tired.  And  then  a  very  white-haired,  white-whiskered, 
white-tied  old  gentleman  entered  one  of  the  many  doors 
and  looked  nervously  about  him;  when,  seeing  me,  he 
brightened  up,  and  at  once  began  to  beckon  me  toward 
him.  Always  respectfully  obedient  to  the  old,  I  at  once 
approached  the  pink  and  white  chipper  old  man,  who 
nodded,  smiled,  and  patting  my  head,  asked,  eagerly: 
"  Er  —  er,  do  you  —  can  you  get  letters  from  the  office- 
window  yonder? " 

His  restless  eyes  wandered  all  over  the  place.  "  Oh, 
yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  "  I  often  get  them  for  my  mother, 
and  for  other  people,  too ! " 

"  Quite  right,  yes,  yes,  quite  right,  quite  right !  "  re- 
sponded the  old  gentleman,  then  added,  reflectively :  "  Yes, 
she's  a  female,  but  females  receive  letters,  though  they 
don't  vote,  yes,  yes !  Well,  my  child,  I  want  you  to  help 
me  in  a  great  and  good  work.  You  know  people  are  taught 
from  their  earliest  infancy  the  necessity  of  minding  their 
P's  and  Q's,  and  that  they  don't  do  it !  Now  you  and  I 


234  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

will  mind  the  P's  and  Q's  of  this  great  city,  won't  we, 
my  dear?  So,  you  just  go  to  the  window  there  and  get 
all  the  letters  there  are  for  Parker,  Purley,  Prentiss,  and 
Porter,  and  I'll  come  after  you  and  get  all  the  letters  for 
Pixley,  Pratt,  Prince,  and  Pettigrew,  and  to-morrow,  my 
dear,  we'll  come  down  and  get  all  the  Q's  —  the  Quigley, 
Quinn,  and  Quiller  crowd  —  and  —  and  we'll  take  all  the 
letters  over  to  the  fountain  and  throw  them  in  the  basin 
of  water,  and  if  they  float  we'll  pitch  bricks  at  'em !  Now, 
now's  your  time,  go  ahead,  and  get  all  the  P's  you  can 
—  it's  a  great  scheme,  great ! "  and  then  he  stopped, 
for  an  almost  breathless  voice  called  out :  "  Here  he  is, 
Hank !  confound  him !  "  And  as  two  men  hurried  tow- 
ard my  chipper  old  reformer,  one  said,  reproachfully: 
"  Now,  look-a-here,  Mr.  Peiffer,  if  you  don't  keep  your 
word  no  better  nor  this,  Hank  and  me'll  have  to  keep 
hold  of  you  on  your  walks,  and  you  won't  like  that !  " 

"  No,"  meekly  murmured  the  old  man,  "I  —  er  —  I 
won't  like  that,  I'm  sure." 

Then  Hank  turned  to  me  and  asked,  suspiciously: 
"  Has  he  been  filling  you  full  of  P's  and  Q's?  " 

I  nodded.  "  Then,"  said  the  other  man,  "  we'd  better 
get  him  back  quick,  that's  the  way  he  begins.  Come  on, 
now,  Mr.  Peiffer,  come  on !  "  and  between  them  they  led 
away  the  poor  white-haired  old  madman,  who  looked 
back  as  he  passed  me,  and  whispered :  "  Pitch  'em  in 
the  fountain,  I'll  get  the  Q's  to-morrow !  " 

There,  too,  was  the  old,  old  grave-yard  that  the  city 
had  crept  up  to,  cautiously  at  first,  then  finding  them 
quite  harmless  —  the  quiet  dead  —  had  stretched  out 
brick  and  mortar  arms  and  circled  it  about.  A  network 
of  streets  had  tangled  about  it,  and  turbulent  life  dashed 
against  its  very  gates  on  the  outside,  but  inside  there  was 
a  great  green  silence. 

How  well  I  knew  the  quiet  place  —  the  far,  damp  cor- 
ner where,  in  lifting  bodies  for  removal  to  a  new  cemetery, 
one  had  been  found  petrified ;  the  giant  sycamore-tree 
that  guarded  the  grave  of  a  mighty  Indian  chief,  the  lonely 


GOOD-BY   TO   CLEVELAND        235 

hemlock  blackened  nook  where  a  grave  had  been  cruelly 
robbed,  the  most  expensive  tomb,  the  most  beautiful  tomb, 
the  oldest  tomb,  I  knew  them  all.  But  the  special  attrac- 
tion for  me  was  a  plain  white  headstone  that  happened  to 
bear  my  own  name.  Whenever  my  mother  boxed  my 
ears,  or  was  too  hasty  in  her  judgment  to  be  quite  just, 
I  went  over  to  my  silent  city  and  sat  down  and  looked 
at  the  tombstone,  and  thought  if  it  were  really  mine  how 
sorry  my  mother  would  feel  for  what  she  had  done.  And 
when  I  had,  in  imagination,  seen  her  tears  and  remorse, 
I  would  begin  to  feel  sorry  for  her  and  to  think  she  was 
punished  enough,  especially  if  it  was  rather  late,  and  the 
shadows  of  tombstones  and  trees  all  fell  long  upon  the 
sunny  walks,  all  pointing  like  warning  black  fingers  tow- 
ard the  gate.  Then,  indeed,  I  was  apt  to  forgive  my 
mother  and  flee  to  her  —  and  supper. 

And  so,  up  and  down,  smiling  and  sighing,  I  went, 
taking  conge  of  the  city  that  had  been  home  to  me  all 
my  life,  save  just  two  years.  I  even  paused  at  the  little 
old  cottage  whose  gate  was  the  only  one  I  had  ever 
swung  on,  and  I  had  hated  the  swinging,  but  I  was  six 
and  was  passionately  enamoured  of  a  small  person  named 
Johnnie,  who  lived  there  and  who  wore  blue  aprons ;  so  I 
swung  on  the  gate  with  him  and  to  please  him,  and  then, 
being  like  most  of  his  sex,  fickle  of  fancy,  he  deserted 
me  for  a  new  red  dress  worn  by  another.  And  when 
he  spilled  milk  on  it  (his  mother  sold  milk)  and  spoiled 
its  glory,  she  scratched  his  face,  and  he  wanted  to  re- 
turn to  me;  but  my  love  was  dead,  so  dead  I  wouldn't 
even  accept  sips  of  milk  out  of  the  little  pails  he  had  to 
carry  around  to  customers.  And,  so  cruel  is  life,  there 
I  stood  and  laughed  as  I  took  leave  of  the  small  gate. 

At  last  all  was  done,  my  trunks  were  gone,  I  sat  in 
my  empty  room  waiting  for  the  carriage.  I  had  to  make 
my  journey  quite  alone,  since  my  mother  was  to  join  me 
only  when  I  had  found  a  place  to  settle  in.  I  was  very 
sad.  Mr.  Ellsler  was  ill,  for  the  first  time  since  I  had 
known  him,  and  I  had  been  over  to  his  home,  three 


236  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

or  four  blocks  away,  and  bade  good-by  to  Mrs.  Ellsler 
and  gentle  little  Annie  —  the  other  children  were  out. 
And  finding  I  had  no  fear  of  contagion  from  a  bad  throat, 
she  showed  me  into  Mr.  Ellsler's  room.  I  was  shocked 
to  see  him  so  wasted  and  so  weak,  and  not  being  used 
to  sickness  I  was  frightened  about  him.  Judge,  then, 
my  amazement,  when,  hearing  a  knock  on  my  door  and 
calling,  "  Come  in,"  instead  of  a  bell-boy,  there  entered, 
pale  and  almost  staggering,  Mr.  Ellsler.  A  rim  of  red 
above  his  white  muffler  betrayed  the  bandaged  throat, 
and  his  poor  voice  was  but  a  husky  whisper. 

"  I  could  not  help  it,"  he  said ;  "  you  were  placed  under 
my  care  once  by  your  mother.  You  were  a  child  then, 
and  though  you  are  pleased  to  consider  yourself  a  woman 
now,  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  your  leaving  the  city, 
at  this  saddest  hour  of  the  day,  to  begin  a  lonely  journey, 
without  some  old  friend  being  by  for  a  parting  God- 
speed." 

I  was  inexpressibly  grateful,  even  through  all  my 
fright  at  his  rashness ;  but  he  had  yet  another  surprise 
for  me.  He  said :  "  I  wanted,  too,  Clara,  to  make  you 
a  little  present,  to  give  you  a  keepsake  that  would  last 
long  and  would  remind  you  daily  of  —  of  —  er  the  years 
you  have  passed  in  my  theatre." 

He  drew  a  small  box  from  his  pocket.  "  A  good  girl 
and  a  good  actress,"  he  said,  "  needs  and  ought  to  own 
a  —  "  he  touched  a  spring,  the  box  flew  open  —  "  a  good 
watch,"  he  finished. 

I  gave  a  cry,  I  could  not  realize  it  was  for  me  —  I 
could  not !  I  clasped  my  hands  in  admiration  instead  of 
taking  it,  so,  with  his  thin,  sick  man's  fingers,  he  took 
it  from  its  case  and  dropped  it  in  my  lap.  I  caught  it 
then,  and  "  Oh !  "  and  again  "  Oh !  "  was  all  that  I  could 
cry,  while  I  pressed  it  to  my  cheek  and  gloated  over  it. 

Literally,  I  could  not  speak,  such  an  agony  of  delight 
in  its  beauty,  of  pride  in  its  possession,  of  satisfaction  in 
a  need  supplied,  of  gratitude  tremendous  and  surprise 
immeasurable  were  more  than  T  could  find  words  for. 


LEAVING   MY  FIRST  MANAGER     237 

If  you  are  inclined  to  think  this  exaggeration,  remem- 
ber how  poor  I  was  —  had  always  been ;  remember,  too, 
there  were  no  cheap  watches  then;  this  was  of  the  best 
make  and  had  a  chain  attached  as  well ;  then  think  how 
great  was  my  need  of  it  for  the  theatre,  day  and  night, 
and  for  traveling.  By  my  utter  inability  to  earn  such 
a  thing  measure  my  joyful  surprise  at  receiving  it,  a  gift. 

It  was  one  of  the  red-letter  days  of  my  life,  the  day 
I  owned  a  watch.  My  thanks  must  have  been  sadly 
jumbled  and  broken,  but  my  pride  and  pleasure  made 
Mr.  Ellsler  laugh,  and  then  the  carriage  was  there,  and 
laughter  stilled  into  a  silent,  close  hand-clasp.  As  I 
opened  the  door  of  the  dusty  old  hack,  I  glanced  up  and 
saw  the  first  star  prick  brightly  through  the  evening 
sky.  Then  the  hoarse  voice  said,  "  God  bless  you !  "  and 
I  had  left  my  first  manager. 

As  I  stepped  out  of  the  carriage  at  the  depot,  glancing 
up  again  I  saw  the  sky  sown  thick  with  stars,  like  a  field 
of  heavenly  daisies.  I  smiled  a  little  at  the  thought,  then 
suddenly  drew  my  watch  to  see  the  time,  and  hurried  to 
my  train.  Thus  grateful  for  a  kindly  send-off,  made 
happy  by  a  gift,  I  turned  my  back  upon  the  old,  safe  life 
and  brightly,  hopefully  faced  the  new.  For  I  was  young, 
and  therefore  confident;  and  it  is  surely  for  the  old 
world's  need  that  God  has  made  youth  so. 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-NINTH 

My  first  Humiliating  Experience  in  Cincinnati  is  Followe  I 
by  a  Successful  Appearance — I  Make  the  Acquaintance 
of  the  Enthusiastic  Navoni. 

IT  is  a  deep  humiliation  to  relate  my  first  experience 
in  Cincinnati,  but  for  reasons  I  set  it  down. 
A  friend  of  mine,  who  hailed  from  Cincinnati  and 
who  wished  to  serve  me,  had  said :  "  One  thing  I  think  I 
can  do  for  you,  friend  Clara,  I  can  save  you  the  weari- 
ness and  annoyance  of  a  long  search  in  a  strange  city 
for  board.  My  wife  and  I  were  never  so  comfortable 
in  our  lives  before  as  we  were  at  the  house  of  a  Mrs. 
Scott.  She  is  a  gentlewoman,  therefore  she  never  pries, 
never  gossips,  never  '  just  runs  in  a  moment/  when  you 
want  to  study  a  '  part/  Her  charges  are  reasonable,  the 
table  a  little  close,  perhaps,  but  the  cooking  perfect.  You 
and  your  mother  would  suit  her  demands  as  to  regularity 
of  habits,  quiet  conduct,  etc.,  completely,  and  going  there 
so  early  in  September  you  will  stand  a  good  chance  of 
securing  a  room.  Try  for  '  ours  '  —  it  was  so  sunny  and 
bright."  And  I,  delighted  at  such  a  prospect,  looked 
upon  my  letter  of  introduction  as  a  very  valuable  docu- 
ment —  a  sort  of  character  from  my  last  place,  and  early 
on  Monday  morning  went  forth  from  my  temporarily 
sheltering  hotel  to  find  Mrs.  Scott  and  beg  her  to  take 
me  in  on  the  word  of  her  boarders  of  a  year  ago. 

I  found  the  house  easily,  but,  modest  as  was  its  ex- 
terior, its  rich  interior  sent  my  heart  down  rapidly  — 
it  was  going  to  be  away  beyond  my  salary  I  decided. 
Yet  after  a,  to  me,  most  bewildering  interview,  I  found 
myself  inspecting  the  big  sunny  room,  and  shrinking  at 
the  thought  of  my  rough  trunks  coming  in  contact  with 

238 


A   STRANGE   BOARDING   PLACE    239 

such  a  handsome  carpet.  Mrs.  Scott  had  remarked, 
casually,  that  she  had  put  her  earnings  back  on  the  house, 
as  a  pure  matter  of  business,  and  I  was  radiant  when  she 
named  her  price  for  the  room,  and  hastily  engaging  it, 
I  started  out  at  once  to  order  my  trunks  taken  there  and 
to  telegraph  mother  to  come. 

As  I  descended  the  steps  I  could  not  help  humming 
a  little  tune.  A  policeman  strolled  across  the  street 
toward  me,  and  I  had  a  hazy  notion  that  he  had  been 
there  when  I  went  in.  As  I  reached  the  pavement  he 
stepped  up,  and  holding  out  to  me  a  handkerchief,  pal- 
pably his  own,  asked,  while  looking  at  me  closely,  if  it 
was  mine. 

I  was  indignant,  and  I  answered,  sharply :  "  It  is  not 
mine  —  as  you  very  well  know !  " 

He  laughed  rather  sheepishly,  and  said :  "  Well,  you 
are  not  stupid,  if  you  are  innocent,"  then  asked :  "  Are 
you  a  stranger  here  ?  " 

I  turned  back  toward  the  house  I  had  just  left,  then 
paused  as  I  said,  angrily :  "  I  have  a  mind  to  go  back 
and  ask  Mrs.  Scott  to  come  out  with  me  to  protect  me 
from  the  impertinence  of  the  police !  " 

"  Who  ?  "  he  asked,  with  wide-open,  wondering  eyes, 
"  you  will  go  back  to  who  ?  " 

"  To  Mrs.  Scott,"  I  snapped. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  there's  no  Mrs.  Scott  there." 

"No?"  I  questioned  satirically.  "No?  Well,  as  I 
have  just  engaged  board  from  Mrs.  Scott,  I  venture  to 
differ  with  you." 

"  Good  Lord,  Miss,"  the  man  said,  "  Mrs.  William 
Scott's  been  dead  these  nine  months  or  more.  That's 
no  place  for  honest  people  now.  Why  —  why,  we're 
watchin'  the  house  this  moment,  hoping  to  catch  that 
woman's  jail-bird  son,  who  has  broken  jail  in  Louisville 
—  don't  look  so  white,  Miss !  " 

"  But  —  but,"  I  whispered,  "I  —  I  was  sent  here  by  a 
friend  —  I  —  I  have  engaged  a  room  there !  Oh,  what 
shall  I  do?" 


240  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

"  That's  all  right,  Miss,"  reassuringly  answered  the 
policeman,  "  I'll  give  up  the  room  for  you.  You  ain't 
the  only  one  that  has  come  here  expecting  to  find  Mrs. 
Scott  in  the  house.  You  don't  need  to  go  back  to  the 
door ; "  and  the  theatre  being  in  full  view,  in  an  agony 
of  humiliation  and  terror,  I  flung  myself  into  its  friendly, 
just-opened  office,  where  Mr.  Macaulay  presently  found 
me  shaking  like  a  leaf  and  almost  unable  to  make  plain 
my  experience. 

He  was  furious,  and  finding  my  name  was  mentioned 
in  the  letter  of  introduction  to  Mrs.  Scott,  and  that  -"  Mrs. 
Scott "  had  retained  it,  he  called  the  policeman  and  to- 
gether they  went  to  the  house  and  demanded  the  letter 
back.  It  was  given  up,  but  most  unwillingly,  as  the 
woman,  with  the  superstition  of  all  gambling  people, 
looked  upon  it  as  a  luck-breeder,  a  mascot;  and  an  hour 
later,  by  Mr.  Macaulay's  aid,  I  had  found  two  wee  rooms, 
whose  carpets  would  welcome  my  trunks  as  hiders  of 
holes  —  rooms  that  were  dull,  even  dingy,  but  had  never- 
theless securely  sheltered  honest  poverty  for  long  years 
past,  and  could  do  as  much  for  years  to  come. 

I  mention  this  unpleasant  incident  simply  to  show  how 
utterly  unexpected  are  some  of  the  pitfalls  that  make 
dangerous  the  pathway  of  honest  girlhood.  To  show, 
too,  that  utter  ignorance  of  evil  is  in  itself  a  danger. 
The  interview  that  bewildered  me  would  have  been,  for 
instance,  a  danger  signal  to  my  mother,  who  would,  too, 
having  seen  how  the  richness  of  furniture  contradicted 
outside  shabbiness,  have  had  her  suspicions  aroused.  I 
noted  that  fact,  but  not  knowing  of  gambling  being  un- 
lawful and  secretly  carried  on,  my  observation  was  of 
no  service  to  me,  as  it  suggested  nothing.  Ignorance  of 
the  existence  of  evil  may  sometimes  become  the  active 
foe  of  innocence. 

No  one  learned  of  the  unpleasant  experience,  so  I 
was  spared  disagreeable  comment;  and,  sending  for  my 
mother  to  join  me,  I  devoted  myself  to  preparations  of 
my  opening  night. 


IN   CINCINNATI  241 

The  meeting  with  strangers,  which  I  had  greatly 
dreaded,  passed  off  so  easily,  even  so  pleasantly,  as  to 
surprise  me.  Everyone  offered  a  kind  word  of  greeting, 
and  all  the  women  expressed  their  sympathy  because  I 
had  to  open  in  so  poorly  dressed  a  part.  That  troubled 
me  very  little,  however. 

The  character  was  that  of  a  country  girl  (Cicely)  in 
some  old  comedy,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten.  She 
wore  just  one  gown  —  a  black  and  white  print,  as  she 
was  in  mourning  for  her  old,  farmer  father.  A  rustic 
wench,  a  milk-maid  come  up  to  "  Lun'un-town,"  she 
had  one  speech  that  was  a  trial  for  any  woman  to  have 
to  speak.  It  was  not  as  brutally  expressed  as  are  many 
of  the  speeches  given  to  rustics  in  the  old  English  com- 
edies—  but  it  was  the  double- entendre  that  made  it 
coarse. 

Some  of  the  ladies  were  speaking  with  me  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  the  "  old  woman  "  suggested  that  I  just  mumble 
the  words.  I  said  I  could  not  well  do  that,  as  it  was  a 
part  of  the  principal  scene  of  the  play. 

"  Well,"  declared  another,  "  I  should  hang  my  head 
and  let  the  house  see  that  I  was  ashamed  of  the  speech." 

I  said  nothing,  but  I  thought  that  would  be  a  most 
inartistic  breaking  away  from  the  part  of  the  rustic 
Cicely,  and  a  dragging  in  of  scandalized  Miss  Morris. 

The  girl  was  supposed  to  make  the  speech  through 
blundering  ignorance,  she  alone  not  seeing  its  signifi- 
cance; and  to  my  idea  there  was  but  one  way  to  deliver 
it,  and  that  certainly  was  not  with  a  hanging  head  and 
shamefaced  manner,  thus  showing  perfect,  if  disapprov- 
ing, knowledge  of  its  double  meaning. 

When  the  opening  night  came  a  pleasant  little  thing 
happened  to  me.  As  I  entered  with  straw  hat  tied  under 
chin  and  bundle  in  hand,  I  received  a  modest  little  recep- 
tion, what  would  about  equal  the  slight  raising  of  a  hat 
in  passing  a  woman  in  a  corridor;  but  the  moment  I 
had  spoken  the  first  insignificant  speech  the  house  gave 
me  as  hearty  a  greeting  as  any  leading  woman  could 
wish  for. 


242  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

I  was  startled  and  much  confused  for  a  few  moments, 
but  very  pleased  and  grateful  withal,  yet  when  I  came 
off,  Mr.  Macaulay's  pleasure  seemed  twice  as  great  as 
mine,  and  as  I  laughingly  told  him  so,  he  said :  "  Well, 
now  I'm  going  to  make  a  confession.  Your  letters  gave 
me  an  impression  of  —  of  —  well,  you  are  entirely  un- 
like your  letters  —  you  are  smaller,  and  you  look  even 
younger  than  you  really  are.  There  isn't  the  very  faint- 
est suggestion  of  the  actress  in  your  manner,  and  —  and 
—  to  be  honest,  I  was  a  bit  frightened  over  the  engage- 
ment I  had  made.  Then  your  having  to  open  in  this  in- 
significant part  was  against  you.  But  they  are  no  fools 
out  there,  my  girl.  They  have  found  you  out  already. 
Your  eyes  and  voice  alone  won  that  welcome,  and  I'd 
not  be  afraid  to  wager  something  now  that  the  last  cur- 
tain falls  to-night  upon  a  new  favorite." 

I  was  greatly  pleased,  but  those  broad  lines  were  still 
hanging  over  me,  still  disturbing  me. 

At  last  the  scene  arrived.  I  gave  the  inquiring  speech, 
with  its  wretched  double  meaning,  clearly  and  plainly, 
looking  squarely  and  honestly  into  the  eyes  of  the  person 
I  addressed  —  the  result  was  described  as  follows  by  a 
morning  paper: 

"  That  one  speech  proved  the  newcomer  an  actress  of 
superior  quality.  Clearly  and  simply  given,  the  great 
guffaw  that  instantly  responded  to  the  double-entendre 
had  scarcely  risen,  when  the  girl's  perfect  honesty,  her 
wide-eyed  innocence,  so  impressed  the  audience  that  ap- 
plause broke  from  every  part  of  the  house.  It  was  the 
most  dramatic  moment  of  the  evening,  for  that  outburst 
was  not  merely  approbation  for  the  actress,  it  was  homage 
to  the  woman." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  Mr.  Macaulay's  words  came 
true  —  the  curtain  fell  upon  a  favorite,  by  grace  of  the 
warm  and  kindly  hearts  of  the  Cincinnatians,  who  were 
quick  to  see  merits  and  ever  ready  to  forgive  errors. 

The  Hebrew  citizens,  who  are  enthusiastic  and  most 
generous  patrons  of  the  theatre,  became  especially  fond 


MY   MUSIC   LESSONS  243 

of  me,  so  much  so  indeed  that  the  company  christened 
me  "  Rebecca,"  in  jesting  allusion  to  their  favor,  of  which 
I  was  nevertheless  very  proud,  for  better  judges  of  mat- 
?  ters  theatrical  it  would  be  hard  to  find. 

When  my  mother  arrived,  we  settled  down  in  our  lit- 
tle rooms,  where  my  trunks,  which  had  to  be  opened 
every  day  for  the  nightly  change  of  costume,  had  to 
stand  one  on  top  of  another  in  order  to  make  room  for 
an  old  battle-scarred  piano  that  I  had  hired. 

I  do  not  know  its  maker's  name  —  no  one  knows  — 
which  was  well  for  that  person,  because  his  act  in  con- 
structing such  a  thing  placed  him  in  the  criminal  classes. 
It  seemed  to  be  a  cross  between  a  coffin  and  a  billiard- 
table,  and  there  was  just  enough  left  of  its  rubber  cover 
to  make  an  evil  smell  in  the  room. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  generosity  of  the  leader  of  the 
orchestra  ,(Mr.  Navoni)  I  could  not  have  enjoyed  the 
luxury  of  even  a  few  music  lessons,  but  he  saw  my  will- 
ingness to  learn  —  to  practise  when  possible,  and  loving 
music  rapturously  himself,  he  took  a  generous  delight 
in  helping  others  to  the  knowledge  he  had  such  a  store 
of.  Therefore,  for  a  ridiculously  small  price,  just  enough, 
he  said,  to  properly  mark  our  relations  as  master  and 
pupil,  he  introduced  me  to  my  notes  and  lines  and  ledger- 
lines,  too  (confound  them!),  and  accidentals  and  sharps 
(which  I  hated)  and  flats  (which  I  liked),  and  I  devel- 
oped a  great  affection  for  c,  because  I  could  always  find 
it,  while  I  hate  a  to  this  hour  because  of  the  trouble  it 
gave  me  so  long  ago. 

One  thing  I  am  sure  of,  had  anyone  awakened  me  sud- 
denly from  a  deep  sleep  at  that  time  I  would  instantly 
have  exclaimed :  "  One  and  two  and  three  and."  Mr. 
Navoni  and  his  wife  had  the  room  directly  over  ours ; 
of  course  I  knew  every  loud  sound  we  made  must  pene- 
trate to  his  room,  and  as  I  could  conceive  of  nothing 
more  maddening  than  to  have  to  listen  to  a  beginner's 
one,  two,  three  —  one,  two,  three,  I  tried  to  practise  when 
he  was  out,  which  was  difficult,  as  our  hours  were  the 


244  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

same.  Then  one  day,  knowing  he  was  composing  a 
march  for  a  special  occasion,  I  closed  the  piano  and  de- 
termined I  would  not  disturb  him  with  any  noise  of  mine. 

Upstairs,  then,  Mr.  Navoni  sat,  rumpled  as  to  hair, 
fiery  as  to  eye,  with  violin  on  table  and  pen  in  hand.  He 
hummed  a  little,  tried  one  or  two  bars  on  the  violin,  then 
savagely  threw  a  few  notes  of  ink  on  to  his  ruled  paper. 
Then  he  hummed  a  little,  and  seemed  to  listen,  jotted 
down  a  note  or  two,  listened  attentively,  and  then  burst 
out :  "  Do  you  hear  a  sound  of  practice  from  Miss  Mor- 
ris's room  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,"  gently  replied  Mrs.  Navoni,  "  she  doesn't 
want  to  disturb  you  at  your  work,  she '  , 

But  a  burst  of  wrath  stopped  her.  Mr.  Navoni  was 
clattering  downstairs  and  pounding  on  our  door :  "  What 
does  this  mean?  Get  you  to  that  devilish  bad  piano  and 
do  your  scales  —  scales,  mind  you  —  let  the  exercises 
wait  till  the  last!  Interrupt  me?  Love  I  not  music! 
nothing  is  sweeter  to  me  than  the  '  one,  two,  three '  of 
the  beginner  —  if  the  beginner  is  not  a  fool  —  if  the  be- 
ginner counts  the  '  one,  two,  three  '  correctly !  Damn ! 
yes,  I  say  damn !  look  at  the  time  lost !  afraid  to  disturb 
me?  How  the  devil  am  I  to  compose  that  march  they 
want  with  this  room  still  as  the  dead?  Now  I  go  back, 
and  if  you  don't  do  those  scales,  all  smooth  and  even, 
and  the  exercises  rightly  timed,  you  —  well,  you  know 
what  you'll  get!  I  can  hear,  even  if  I  am  composing. 
So  you  get  to  work,  quick  now!  before  I  get  back  to 
my  table!" 

And  he  tore  off  again,  while,  with  clammy  fingers,  I 
sat  down  to  the  wretched  old  piano,  that  was  showing 
its  teeth  at  me  in  a  senile  grin,  and  feebly  and  uncertainly 
began  to  wobble  up  and  down  the  keyboard. 

Mrs.  Navoni  afterward  told  me  that  when  her  husband 
returned  to  his  work  he  hummed  to  himself  a  few  mo- 
ments, jotted  down  a  few  notes,  listened  to  the  sound  of 
the  rattling  old  piano,  and,  smiling  and  nodding,  re- 
marked :  "  Now  I  can  do  something  —  one,  two,  three 


KEEPING   TIME  245 

—  one,  two,  three  —  that's  right.  I  couldn't  compose  a 
bar  with  her  wasting  a  precious  hour  down  there.  She 
keeps  good  time,  eh,  doesn't  she  ?  Now  I'll  give  the  boys 
something  that  will  move  their  feet  for  them ! "  and  he 
returned  to  the  march. 

The  thing  which  I  was  to  get  if  I  failed  to  practise 
correctly  was  so  unusual  that  I  feel  I  must  explain  it. 
Mr.  Navoni  wore  an  artificial  foot  and  leg  of  the  cum- 
brous type  then  offered  to  the  afflicted,  and  in  the  privacy 
of  his  own  room  he  used  to  remove  the  burdensome  thing 
and  lay  it  on  a  chair  by  the  couch  on  which  he  rested  or 
read  or  wrote,  and  when  I,  down-stairs,  made  a  first  mis- 
take in  my  practice,  he  growled  and  kicked  viciously  with 
his  "  for-true  "  leg,  while  a  second  blunder  would  make 
him  seize  his  store-leg  and  pound  the  floor.  Then  when  I 
began  again  he  would  whack  the  correct  time  with  it  with 
such  emphasis  that  bits  of  my  ceiling  would  come  rattling 
down  about  me  and  the  gas-fixture  threatened  not  to  re- 
main a  fixture. 

Another  trick  of  his  was  to  bring  down  his  violin  with 
him.  How  my  heart  sank  when  I  saw  it,  and,  my  lesson 
over,  he  requested  me  to  play  such  or  such  an  exercise: 
"  And  keep  to  your  own  business,  and  leave  my  business 
to  me,  if  you  please,  Miss.  Now! " 

I  was  then  expected  to  go  over  and  over  that  exercise 
and  keep  perfect  time,  while  he  stood  behind  me  and  im- 
provised on  the  violin,  growing  more  and  more  distract- 
ing every  moment,  and  if  that  led  my  attention  away 
from  my  one,  two,  three,  what  a  crack  I  got  across  the 
top  of  my  ear  from  his  fiddle-bow,  and  a  sharp  order  to : 
"  Go  back  —  go  back !  one,  two,  three ;  one,  two,  three ! 
Cry  by  and  by,  but  now  play !  One,  two,  three !  " 

I  should  have  thought  myself  a  hopeless  case,  and  given 
up,  had  I  not  one  morning  overheard  him  boasting  to 
some  of  the  musicians :  "  That  I  was  a  good  enough 
leading  woman,  he  supposed,  but  it  was  as  a  piano  pupil 
that  I  really  counted  for  something.  Why,"  he  cried, 
"  she  has  the  most  perfect  ear,  and  such  steadiness  —  a 


246  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

whole  band-wagon  of  instruments  turned  loose  on  her 
wouldn't  make  her  lose  time !  " 

I  smiled  and  felt  of  my  even  then  burning  ear,  but 
still  his  boast  encouraged  me  to  return  to  my  scales, 
which  were  wofully  interrupted  by  the  necessity  I  ex- 
perienced of  clawing  up  with  my  nails  several  old  keys 
that  were  too  weak  to  rise  again  having  once  been  pressed 
down. 

When  Mr.  Navoni  played,  and  he  came  to  one  of  those 
tired-out  ivories,  he  put  a  damn  in  the  place  of  the  absent 
note,  but  for  obvious  reasons  I  could  not  do  that.  But 
Mr.  Navoni  was  an  earnest,  determined,  and  enthusiastic, 
teacher,  and  I  remember  him  gratefully  and  respectfully. 

The  widow  of  the  boarding-house  differs  from  the  wid- 
ow of  the  Testament  in  that  the  boarding-house  widow's 
cruse  of  oil  seems  always  "  just  out,"  and  her  meal  at  a 
like  low  ebb.  Neither  my  mother  nor  myself  were  used 
to  luxuries ;  we  expected  little,  and,  truth  to  tell,  we  got 
it.  To  say  we  were  nearly  always  hungry  would  be  put- 
ting things  quite  mildly,  but  we  were  together!  and  so 
'twas  better  to  feel  a  bit  "  gone  "  under  the  belt  than  to 
be  filled  to  repletion  and  live  apart. 

I  worked  hard  at  all  times,  and  five  nights  out  of  seven 
I  had  to  study  till  far  on  toward  morning.  The  Saturday 
brought  me  a  double  performance,  and  left  me  a  wreck ; 
thus  I  thought  I  had  a  right  to  a  bit  of  a  treat  on  Sun- 
day; and  I  can  see  the  important  air  mother  uncon- 
sciously assumed  as  she  went  forth  on  her  secret  errand 

—  secret  that  no  offence  might  be  given  to  the  econom- 
ical landlady. 

When  the  matinee  was  over  I  brought  home  my  per- 
sonal offering  for  our  next  day's  comfort  and  pleasure 

—  a  copy  of  an  illustrated  weekly  paper  and  five  cents' 
worth  of  candy,  always  something  hard  that  would  last 
us  long  while  we  read.    Thus  on  Saturday  night,  on  the 
sill   of  the  back  window,  there   stood   a   small   can   of 
oysters,  while  in  the  top  drawer  rested  a  box  marked 


SUNDAY'S   ROUTINE  247 

handkerchiefs,  but  which  held  crackers,  beside  it  a  folded 
paper,  and  on  top  of  that  the  wee  package  of  candy. 

I  had  a  membership  at  the  library  on  the  corner,  so 
we  had  books,  too,  thank  heaven !  I  have  always  been 
a  fairly  regular  church-goer;  in  Cincinnati  the  limita- 
tions of  my  wardrobe  would  have  made  me  conspicuous. 
I  had  but  one  street  dress  in  the  world,  and  constant  wear 
in  rain  or  shine  made  it  a  very  shabby  affair.  In  novels 
the  heroine  who  has  but  one  gown  is  always  so  exquis- 
itely gloved  and  shod,  and  her  veil  and  neck-wear  are  so 
immaculately  fresh,  that  no  one  notices  the  worn  dress; 
but  in  real  life  it's  just  the  gloves  and  shoes  and  veils 
and  ruffles  that  cost  the  most  money,  yet  their  absence 
stamps  you  ill-bred  in  the  eyes  of  other  women.  There- 
fore I  knew  the  inside  of  but  one  church  in  Cincin- 
nati, "  Christ's  Episcopal,"  and  only  knew  that  in  the 
spring,  when  I  had  fluttered  forth  in  new  gown  and 
gloves  and  things ;  so  Sundays  were  given  over  to  a  late 
breakfast,  a  little  reading  in  the  Bible,  a  good  long  reading 
of  secular  matter,  sweetened  by  candy,  a  calm  acceptance 
(that  was  puzzling  to  the  Navonis)  of  a  shadowy  din- 
ner, a  short  walk  if  weather  permitted,  then,  oh,  then! 
a  locked  door,  a  small  tea-pot,  a  tiny  saucepan  (we  had 
not  the  bliss  of  owning  a  chafing-dish),  and  presently  we 
sat  enjoying,  to  the  last  spoonful,  a  hot  and  delicious 
stew,  a  pot  of  tea,  that  brought  to  mind  many  stories  and 
made  old  jokes  dance  forth  with  renewed  youth,  and 
kept  us  loitering  over  our  small  banquet  in  a  quite  dis- 
graceful way.  Then  back  to  our  novels  again  till  bed- 
time, and  next  day,  all  fresh  and  rested,  I  began  my 
"  one  and  two  and  three  and  "  before  breakfast,  and  thus 
won  approval  from  Navoni  and  started  a  new  week's 
work  under  fair  auspices. 


CHAPTER  THIRTIETH 

New  York  City  is  Suggested  to  Me  by  Mr.  Worthington 
and  Mr.  Johnson  —  Mr.  Ellsler's  Mild  Assistance  —  I 
Journey  to  New  York,  and  Return  to  Cincinnati  with 
Signed  Contract  from  Mr.  Daly. 

TO  say  I  made  a  success  in  Cincinnati  is  the  barest 
truth.  Almost  at  once  —  the  third  night  of  the 
season,  to  be  exact  —  I  received  my  first  anony- 
mous gift :  a  very  beautiful  and  expensive  set  of  jewelry, 
pale-pink  corals  in  combined  dead  and  burnished  gold. 
They  rested  in  their  satin-lined  nest  and  tempted  me. 
The  sender  wrote :  "  Show  that  you  forgive  my  temerity 
by  wearing  my  offering  in  the  third  act." 

I  did  not  wear  them  in  any  act,  and  yet,  oh,  eternal 
feminine !  I  "  tried  them  on  "  —  at  least  I  put  one  ring 
in  my  ear  and  held  the  pendant  against  my  throat,  "  just 
to  see  "  how  they  would  have  looked,  you  know. 

Flowers  came  over  the  footlights,  the  like  of  which  I 
had  never  seen  in  my  life  before  —  great  baskets  of  hot- 
house beauties,  some  of  them  costing  more  than  I  earned 
in  a  week.  Then  one  night  came  a  bolder  note,  with  a 
big  gold  locket.  A  signature  made  it  possible  for  me  to 
return  that  gift  next  morning. 

All  that  sort  of  thing  was  new  to  me,  and,  naturally, 
pleasing  —  yes,  because  earned  approbation  pleases  one, 
even  though  it  be  not  quite  correctly  expressed.  It  soon 
became  whispered  about  that  I  sent  back  all  gifts  of 
jewelry,  and  lo !  one  matinee,  with  a  splendid  basket  of 
white  camelias,  fringed  about  with  poinsetta  leaves,  there 
came  a  box  of  French  candied  fruit.  My!  what  a  sen- 
sation it  created  in  the  dressing-room,  I  remember 

248 


AMBITIOUS   FRIENDS  249 

some  of  the  ladies  (we  dressed  in  one  great  long  room 
there)  took  bits  of  peach  and  of  green  figs  to  show  their 
friends,  while  I  devoted  myself  to  the  cherries  and  apri- 
cots. That  seemed  to  start  a  fashion,  for  candies,  in 
dainty  boxes,  came  to  me  as  often  as  flowers  afterward, 
and,  to  my  great  pride  and  pleasure,  were  often  from 
women,  and  my  Saturday  five  cents'  allowance  was  turned 
over  to  mother  for  the  banqueting  fund  —  that  meant  a 
bit  of  cheese  for  supper. 

At  the  time  of  the  season's  opening  there  was  a  man 
in  Cincinnati  who  was  there  sorely  against  his  will,  a 
wealthy  native  of  the  city,  a  lawyer  who  would  not  prac- 
tise, a  traveler  in  distant  lands,  he  had  lived  mainly  for 
his  own  pleasure  and  had  grown  as  weary  of  that  occu- 
pation as  he  could  possibly  have  grown  had  he  practised 
the  law.  Tired  of  everything  else,  he  still  kept  his  liking 
for  the  theatre.  Living  in  New  York  in  the  winter,  at 
Cape  May  in  the  summer,  he  only  came  to  his  old  home 
when  someone  was  irritating  enough  to  die  and  need 
burying  in  state,  or  when  some  lawsuit  required  his  at- 
tention, as  in  this  instance.  So,  being  there,  and  not 
knowing  what  else  to  do,  he  had  gone  dully  and  moodily 
to  the  theatre,  saying  to  his  cousin  companion :  "  I'll 
take  a  look  at  Macaulay's  new  leading  lady,  and  then 
I'll  sleep  through  the  rest  of  the  evening  comfortably, 
for  no  one  can  talk  to  me  here  as  they  do  at  the  hotel " 
—  and  the  country  Cicely  had  appeared,  and,  to  use  Mr. 
Worthington's  own  words :  he  had  sat  up  straight  as  a 
ramrod  and  as  wide-awake  as  a  teething  baby  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening. 

Between  acts  he  had  made  inquiries  as  to  the  history 
of  the  new  actress,  only  to  find  that,  like  most  happy 
women,  she  had  none.  She  came  from  Cleveland,  she 
lived  three  doors  away  with  her  mother  —  that  was  all. 
On  that  first  night  he  had  said:  "Good  Lord,  Will, 
what  is  that  girl  doing  out  here  in  the  West  ?  I  must  see 
her  in  a  better  part.  What's  on  to-morrow  night?  Se- 
cure our  seats  for  the  season,  that  will  save  a  lot  of 


250  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

trouble ;  "  and  incidentally  it  made  a  lot  of  annoyance 
for  me. 

Next  night  I  played  what  actresses  call  a  "  dressed 
part,"  which,  in  spite  of  suggestion,  does  not  mean  that 
there  are  parts  that  are  not  dressed,  only  that  the  char- 
acter wears  fine  clothes  instead  of  plain  ones.  It  was  a 
bright,  light  comedy  part.  The  audience  was  enthusi- 
astic, though,  of  course,  I  was  only  supporting  the  star. 
Then  Mr.  Worthington  exclaimed :  '  That  girl  ought 
to  be  in  New  York  this  very  moment !  " 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  questioned  his  inseparable. 

"  Do  I  think  so  ?  "  mocked  his  cousin.  "  Yes,  I  know 
it.  I  know  the  theatres  foreign  —  their  schools  and 
styles,  as  well  as  I  know  the  home  theatres  and  their 
actors.  I  believe  I've  made  a  discovery !  " 

A  beautiful  mass  of  flowers  came  to  me  that  night  with 
Mr.  Worthington's  visiting  card,  without  message.  The 
third  night  I  played  a  tearful  part;  the  papers  (as  the 
women  put  it)  "  went  on  awful,"  and  Mr.  Worthington, 
snapping  his  glasses  into  their  case,  said,  as  he  rose :  "  I 
shall  never  rest  till  this  Clara  Morris  faces  New  York. 
She  need  clash  with  no  one,  need  hurt  no  one,  she  is 
unlike  anyone  else,  and  New  York  has  plenty  of  room 
for  her.  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to  meet  her  some 
way  or  other,  and  preach  New  York  until  she  accepts 
the  idea  and  acts  upon  it." 

His  visit  to  Cincinnati  was  prolonged;  his  young 
cousin,  Mr.  Will  Burnett,  thought  he  was  on  the  high- 
road to  crankiness  on  the  subject.  Then  Mr.  Worthing- 
ton discovered  we  had  a  common  friend  in  lawyer  Egbert 
Johnson,  and  he  was  presented  in  proper  form  to  my 
mother  (oh,  wise  Mr.  Worthington),  and  winning  her 
approval  by  praise  of  her  wonderful  chick  (where  is  the 
mother  that  does  not  readily  believe  her  goose  a  swan?), 
she  in  her  turn  presented  him  to  me,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  listened  to  a  suggestion  of  coming  to  New  York. 

To  say  I  was  amused  at  the  idea  would  be  putting  it 
mildly  indeed,  for  I  was  tickled  to  such  laughter  that 


DREAMS   OF   NEW   YORK         251 

tears  came  to  my  eyes.  He  was  annoyed,  but  I  laughed 
on.  He  waited  —  I  was  called  upon  for  some  heavy 
tragic  parts.  He  came  again  —  I  laughed  still. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  I  cried,  "  I'm  not  pretty  enough !  " 

He  said :  "  You  have  your  eyes  and  voice  and  expres- 
sion, and  you  don't  seem  to  be  suffering  much  here  from 
your  lack  of  beauty." 

"  N-no,"  I  answered,  naively,  "  you  see,  all  the  women 
in  this  company  are  rather  plain." 

He  laughed,  but  he  continued  to  urge  me  to  try  for 
an  engagement  in  New  York. 

"  I  don't  know  enough,"  I  faltered. 

"  You  lack  polish  of  manner,  perhaps,"  he  admitted, 
"  but  you  will  acquire  that  quickly,  while  no  one  can 
acquire  your  fire  and  strength  and  pathos!  For  God's 
sake,  let  me  do  one  unselfish  act  in  my  life  —  let  me  serve 
you  in  this  matter.  I  will  go  to  the  managers  in  New 
York  and  speak  for  you." 

But  that  offer  I  curtly  declined,  asking  him  how  long 
my  reputation  would  remain  unassailed  if  I  allowed  him 
to  act  for  me. 

In  spite  of  all  his  praise  of  my  work,  I  should  have 
remained  unmoved  had  Mr.  Johnson  not  joined  forces 
with  Mr.  Worthington,  and  calmly  assured  me  that  he, 
too,  knew  the  New  York  theatres  and  actors,  and  he  hon- 
estly believed  I  had  a  chance  of  acceptance  by  the  public, 
if  only  a  manager  would  give  me  an  opening,  for,  said 
he :  "  Worthington  is  right  this  time,  you  really  are  an 
exceptionally  clever  girl,  so  why  should  you  bury  your- 
self in  small  Western  cities  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  I  indignantly  cried,  "  Cleveland  and  Cincin- 
nati are  very  big  cities,  indeed !  " 

"  Yes,"  smiled  Mr.  Johnson,  "  but  New  York  is  quite 
a  bit  larger,  and  besides  you  would  like  to  be  accepted 
by  the  metropolis  of  your  country,  would  you  not  ?  " 

And  straightway  my  heart  gave  a  bound,  my  cheeks 
began  to  burn,  the  leaven  was  working  at  last  —  my  am- 
bition was  awakened !  I  wondered  day  and  night,  could 


252  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

I  act  well  enough  to  please  New  York?  I  thought  not; 
I  thought  yes!  I  thought  —  I  thought  there  could  be 
no  harm  just  to  ask  the  managers  if  they  had  an  open- 
ing. But  there  my  courage  failed  me  —  I  could  not.  I 
never  had  written  to  a  manager  in  my  life,  save  to  an- 
swer a  letter.  Finally,  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Ellsler  —  he  knew 
all  the  New  York  managers  (few  then)  — and  told  him 
I  was  about  to  ask  my  first  favor  at  his  hands.  Would 
he  write  to  one  or  two  managers  for  me,  or  give  me  a 
line  of  introduction  to  them?  and  his  unexpected  oppo- 
sition to  my  plans,  the  cold  water  he  cast  upon  my  warm 
hopes,  instead  of  crushing  my  spirit  utterly,  aroused  the 
old  dogged  determination  to  do  what  I  had  undertaken 
to  do  —  make  a  try  for  a  New  York  opening ! 

The  controversy  finally  ended  in  my  receipt  of  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Ellsler  informing  me  he  had  written  to  four 
managers,  and  said  what  he  could  for  me  —  which  proved 
to  be  mighty  little,  as  I  afterward  saw  two  of  the  four 
letters,  as  they  were  in  duplicate,  though  one  was  to 
a  stranger,  one  to  an  acquaintance,  and  two  to  friends. 
He  simply  asked :  "  If  they  had  an  opening  for  a  young 
woman,  named  Clara  Morris,  for  leading  or  leading- 
juvenile  business."  That  was  all ;  not  a  word  of  recom- 
mendation for  ability  or  mention  of  years  of  thorough 
experience  —  not  even  the  conventional  expression  of  a 
personal  obligation  if  they  were  able  to  consider  my  ap- 
plication. 

Had  I  been  a  manager,  and  had  I  received  such  a 
letter,  I  know  I  should  have  cast  it  aside,  thinking: 
"  Oh,  that's  a  duty  letter  and  amounts  to  nothing.  If 
the  girl  had  any  recommendations  for  the  position  he 
would  have  said  so."  Still,  some  answers  were  returned, 
though  Mr.  Wallack  ignored  his  copy.  Mr.  Jarrett  (of 
Jarrett  &  Palmer)  wrote  Mr.  Ellsler  that  they  were 
bound  to  spectacular  ("  Black  Crook  ")  for  the  year  to 
come,  and  had  no  earthly  use  for  an  actress  above  a  sou- 
brette  or  a  walking  lady.  Mr.  Edwin  Booth  wrote :  "  If 
you  had  only  addressed  me  a  few  days  earlier.  I  re- 


MR.  DALY'S  BRIEF   REPLY        253 

member  well  the  young  woman  of  whom  you  speak.  I 
have  unfortunately  "  (this  last  word  was  crossed  out) 
— "I  have  just  closed  with  Miss  Blanche  DeBar  —  old 
Ben  is  persistent  and  has  great  confidence  in  her,  and, 
as  I  said,  I  have  just  closed  with  her  for  the  coming  sea- 
son. With,"  etc.,  etc. 

Then  there  was  a  wee  bit  of  paper  —  little,  niggly- 
naggly,  jetty-black,  impishly  vindictive-looking  writing 
on  two  short-waisted  lines  of  about  eleven  words  each. 
That  was  from  Mr.  Daly,  and  it  snapped  out  this  infor- 
mation :  "If  you  send  the  young  woman  to  me  I  will 
willingly  consider  proposal.  Will  engage  no  actress  with- 
out seeing  her.  A.  Daly." 

These  letters  were  blithely  sent  to  me  by  Mr.  Ellsler, 
who  evidently  looked  upon  the  question  as  closed,  but 
that  was  where  we  differed.  I  considered  it  a  question 
just  fairly  opened.  I  admit  Mr.  Daly's  calm  ordering  of 
me  from  Cincinnati  to  his  office  in  New  York  for  inspec- 
tion staggered  me  at  first,  but  there  was  that  line :  "  I 
will  willingly  consider  the  proposal ; "  that  was  all  I  had 
to  trust  to ;  not  much,  heaven  knows !  "  Yet,"  I  argued, 
"  he  is  evidently  a  man  who  says  much  in  little ;  at  all 
events,  though  the  chance  is  small,  it  is  the  only  one 
offered,  and,  if  I  can  stand  the  expense,  I'll  go  and  take 
that  chance." 

I  would  have  to  obtain  leave  of  absence ;  I  would  have 
to  pay  a  woman  for  at  least  two  performances,  even  if 
I  got  off  on  Saturday  night;  I  would  have  to  stop  one 
night  in  a  hotel  at  New  York,  and,  oh,  dear,  oh,  dear! 
would  I  dare  to  risk  so  much  —  to  spend  all  my  little 
savings  toward  the  summer  vacation  for  this  trip  that 
might  end  disastrously  after  all  ?  I  read  again :  "  Will 
engage  no  actress  without  seeing  her."  Well,  that  set- 
tled the  matter.  Suddenly  I  seemed  to  hear  my  old  Irish 
washerwoman  saying :  "  Ah,  well !  God  niver  shuts  one 
dure  without  opening  anither !  "  I  laughed  a  bit  and 
decided  to  risk  my  savings  —  nothing  venture,  nothing 
win! 


254  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

That  very  night  I  asked  leave  of  absence;  the  time 
was  most  favorable  —  I  obtained  it.  I  found  next  day 
an  actress  to  take  my  place  on  Monday  and  Tuesday 
evenings.  Then  mother  and  I  emptied  out  our  flat  and 
old  pocket-books.  I  brought  from  its  secret  hiding-place 
the  little  roll  of  bills  saved  for  summer's  idle  time,  and 
we  put  all  in  a  pile.  Then  I  drew  out  a  week's  board  in 
advance  and  gave  it  to  mother;  drew  out  enough  to  pay 
the  woman  who  took  my  place,  and  all  the  rest,  to  the 
last  dollar,  was  required  for  the  expenses  of  my  solitary 
journey  to  the  great  beckoning  city  by  the  sea. 

As  I  closed  my  pocket-book,  I  said  to  myself :  "  There, 
I  have  shut  one  door  with  my  own  hand,  but  I'll  trust 
God  to  open  another  for  me  before  vacation  arrives." 

There's  an  old  saw  that  gravely  states :  "  It  never  rains 
but  it  pours,"  and  surely  business  opportunities  "  poured  " 
upon  me  at  that  time,  for  in  that  very  week  I  received 
two  offers  of  engagements,  and  one  of  them,  had  not  the 
New  York  bee  been  buzzing  so  loudly  in  my  bonnet, 
would  have  driven  me  quite  wild  with  delight.  That  was 
from  Mr.  Thomas  Maguire,  of  San  Francisco,  and  the 
salary  was  to  me  enormous.  One  hundred  dollars  a  week 
in  gold,  a  benefit,  and  no  vacation  at  all,  unless  I  wished 
it.  I  temporized.  I  wished  to  gain  time  enough  to  learn 
my  fate  in  New  York  before  deciding.  But  Mr.  Maguire 
was  in  haste,  and  as  I  hurried  from  the  theatre  to  start 
on  my  journey,  a  long  envelope  was  placed  in  my  hands. 
I  opened  it  on  the  cars,  and  found  signed  contracts  for 
the  leading  business  at  San  Francisco,  with  an  extra 
benefit  added  as  an  inducement  for  me  to  accept. 

So  I  journeyed  onward  to  tempt  Fate,  a  little  forlorn 
and  frightened  at  first,  but  receiving  so  many  courtesies 
and  little  kindnesses  from  my  more  fortunately  placed 
fellow-travelers,  that  I  quite  forgot  to  be  either  fright- 
ened or  forlorn  —  but  was  amazed  at  the  beauty  of  the 
stately  river  we  crossed,  whose  ripples  caught  the  glow- 
ing color  of  the  sky  and  broke  them  into  jewels;  and 
beyond  that  silvery  curtain  of  haze  stretched  the  great 


SEEING   MR.  DALY  255 

city  of  my  dreams,  all  circled  round  and  guarded  by  liv- 
ing waters. 

Then  I  was  ashore  again  and  clambering  into  the  great 
swaying  coach  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel,  the  conductor 
having  told  me  it  was  right  next  door  to  the  theatre.  I 
breakfasted,  took  from  my  bag  a  new  gray  veil,  a  pair  of 
gray  gloves,  a  bit  of  fresh  ruffling,  and  a  needle  and  thread, 
with  which  I  basted  the  ruffle  into  the  neck  of  my  gown ; 
put  on  the  veil  and  gloves,  that  being  all  the  preparation  I 
could  make  by  way  of  toilet  to  meet  the  arbiter  of  Fate, 
said  "  Our  Father,"  and  coming  to  "  Amen  "  with  a  jerk, 
discovered  I  had  not  been  conscious  of  the  meaning  of 
one  single  word,  and  whispering  with  shame,  "  only  lip 
service,"  remorsefully  repeated  again,  and  with  absolute 
sincerity,  that  prayer  which  expresses  so  simply,  so 
briefly,  all  our  needs,  physical  and  spiritual ;  that  places 
us  at  once  in  the  comforting  position  of  a  beloved  child 
asking  with  confidence  for  a  father's  aid.  A  prayer 
whose  beauty  and  strength  share  in  the  immortality  of 
its  Divine  composer. 

And  then  I  rose  and  went  forth,  prepared  to  accept 
success  or  defeat,  just  as  the  good  Lord  should  will. 

As  I  passed  around  the  hotel  and  approached  the  the- 
atre on  Twenty-fourth  Street,  an  enormous  upheaval  of 
ice  blocked  the  way  —  ice  piled  shoulder  high  in  front 
of  the  theatre  door,  and  on  one  side  of  the  glittering 
mass  stood  a  long,  tall,  thin  man,  as  mad  as  a  hornet, 
while  on  the  other  side,  stolidly,  stupidly  silent,  stood 
a  squat  Irishman,  holding  an  ice-man's  tongs  in  one  hand 
and  his  shock. of  red  hair  in  the  other.  The  long,  flail- 
like  arms  of  the  tall  man  were  in  wild  motion.  In 
righteous  wrath  he  was  trying  to  make  the  bog-trotter 
understand  that  the  ice  was  for  the  hotel,  whose  storage 
door  was  but  a  few  feet  to  his  right,  when  he  saw  me 
making  chamois-like  jumps  over  the  blocks  of  ice  trying 
to  reach  the  door.  With  black-browed  courtesy  he  told 
me  to  use  the  second  door,  that  morning,  to  reach  the 
box-office. 


256  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

I  had,  all  unconsciously,  formed  an  idea  of  Mr.  Daly, 
and  I  was  looking  for  a  small,  dark,  very  dark,  nervously 
irritable  man,  and  was  therefore  frankly  amused  at  the 
wrath  of  the  long,  thin  man,  whose  vest  and  whose 
trousers  could  not  agree  as  to  the  exact  location  of  the 
waist-line,  and  laughed  openly  at  the  ice-scene,  winning 
in  return  as  black  a  scowl  as  any  stage-villain  could  well 
wear.  Then  I  cheerfully  remarked :  "  I'm  looking  for 
Mr.  Daly;  can  you  tell  me  where  I  am  likely  to  find 
him?" 

"You  want  Mr.  Daly?"  he  repeated.  "Who  are 
you?" 

"  I'll  tell  Mr.  Daly  that,  please,"  I  answered. 

He  smiled  and  said:  "Well,  then,  tell  me—  I'm  Mr. 
Daly  —  are  you " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  I'm  the  girl  come  out  of  the 
West,  to  be  inspected.  I'm  Clara  Morris." 

He  frowned  quickly,  though  he  held  out  his  hand  and 
shook  mine  heartily  enough,  and  asked  me  to  come  into 
his  office. 

It  was  a  cranny  in  the  wall.  It  held  a  very  small  desk 
and  one  chair,  behind  which  was  a  folding  stool.  As  he 
entered,  I  laughingly  said :  "  I  think  I'll  lean  here,  I'm 
not  used  to  sitting  on  the  floor,"  but  to  my  surprise,  as 
he  brought  forth  the  stool,  he  curtly  replied :  "  I  was 
not  going  to  ask  you  to  sit  on  the  floor,"  which  so  amused 
me  that  I  could  not  resist  asking :  "  Are  you  from  Scot- 
land, by  chance,  Mr.  Daly  ? "  and  he  had  frowningly 
said  "  No !  "  before  the  old,  old  joke  about  Scotch  density 
came  to  him. 

Then  he  said,  with  severity :  "  Miss  Morris,  I'm  afraid 
your  bump  of  reverence  is  not  well  developed." 

And  I  laughed  and  said :  "  There's  a  hole  there,  Mr. 
Daly,  and  no  bump  at  all,"  and  though  the  words  were 
jestingly  spoken,  there  was  truth  and  to  spare  in  them, 
and  there,  too,  was  the  cause  of  all  the  jolts  and  jars 
and  friction  between  us  in  our  early  days  together.  Mr. 
Daly  was  as  a  god  in  his  wee  theatre,  and  was  always 


SIGNING  FOR  NEW   YORK       257 

taken  seriously.  I  knew  not  gods  and  took  nothing 
under  heaven  seriously.  No  wonder  we  jarred.  Every 
word  I  spoke  that  morning  rubbed  Mr.  Daly's  fur  the 
wrong  way.  I  offended  him  again  and  again.  He 
wished  to  show  me  the  theatre,  and,  striking  a  match, 
lit  a  wax  taper  and  held  it  up  in  the  auditorium,  at  which 
I  exclaimed :  "  Oh,  the  pretty  little  match-box !  Why, 
it's  just  a  little  toy  play-house  —  is  it  not?" 

Which  vexed  him  so  I  was  quite  crushed  for  a  minute 
or  two.  One  thing  only  pleased  him:  I  could  not  tear 
myself  away  from  the  pictures,  and  I  praised,  rapturously, 
a  beautiful  velvety-shadowed  old  engraving.  We  grew 
quite  friendly  over  that,  but  when  we  came  to  business 
he  informed  me  I  was  a  comedy  woman,  root  and  branch. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  ask  Mr.  Edwin  Booth,  or  Mr.  Daven- 
port, or  Mr.  Adams !  " 

He  waved  me  down.  "  I  won't  ask  anyone,"  he  cried ; 
"  I  never  made  a  mistake  in  my  life.  You  couldn't  speak 
a  line  of  sentiment  to  save  your  soul ! " 

"  Why,  sentiment  is  my  line  of  business  —  I  play  sen- 
timent every  week  of  my  life,"  I  protested. 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  "  you  can 
speak  and  repeat  the  lines,  but  you  couldn't  give  a  line 
of  sentiment  naturally  to  save  your  life  —  your  forte  is 
comedy,  pure  and  simple." 

It  all  ended  in  his  offer  to  engage  me,  but  without  a 
stated  line  of  business.  I  must  trust  to  his  honor  not  to 
degrade  me  by  casting  me  for  parts  unworthy  me.  He 
would  give  me  $35  a  week  (knowing' there  were  two  to 
live  on  it),  if  I  made  a  favorable  impression  he  would 
double  that  salary. 

A  poor  offer  —  a  risky  undertaking.  I  had  no  one 
to  consult  with.  I  had  in  my  pocket  the  signed  contract 
for  $100  in  gold  and  two  benefits.  I  must  decide  now, 
at  once.  Mr.  Daly  was  filling  up  a  blank  contract. 
Thirty-five  dollars  against  $100!  "But  if  you  make  a 
favorable  impression  you'll  get  $70,"  I  thought.  And 
why  should  I  not  make  a  favorable  impression?  Yet,  if 


258  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

I  fail  now  in  New  York,  I  can  go  West  or  South,  not 
much  harmed.  If  I  wait  till  I  am  older,  and  fail,  it  will 
ruin  my  life. 

I  slipped  my  hand  in  my  pocket  and  gave  a  little  fare- 
well tap  to  the  contract  for  $100.  I  took  the  pen;  I 
looked  hard  at  him.  "  There's  a  heap  of  trusting  being 
asked  for  in  this  contract,"  I  remarked.  "  You  won't 
forget  your  promise  about  doubling  the  salary  ?  " 

"  I  won't  forget  anything,"  he  answered. 

I  looked  at  the  pen,  it  was  a  stub,  the  first  I  ever  saw ; 
then  I  said :  "  That's  what  makes  your  writing  look  so 
villainous.  I  can't  sign  with  that  thing  —  I'd  be  ashamed 
to  own  my  signature  in  court,  when  we  come  to  the  fight 
we're  very  likely  to  have  before  we  are  through  with 
each  other." 

He  groaned  at  my  levity,  but  got  another  pen.  I  wrote 
Clara  Morris  twice,  shook  hands,  and  went  out  and  back 
to  my  home  —  a  Western  actress  with  an  engagement 
in  a  New  York  theatre  for  the  coming  season. 


CHAPTER   THIRTY-FIRST 

John  Cockerill  and  our  Eccentric  Engagement  —  I  Play  a 
Summer  Season  at  Halifax  —  Then  to  New  York,  and 
to  House-Keeping  at  Last. 

MR.   WORTHINGTON   passed  out   of  my   life 
after  he  had  done  me  the  service  he  set  out  to 
do.     It  had  been  an  odd  notion  to  step  down 
from  his  carriage,  as  it  were,  and  point  out  to  a  girl, 
struggling  along  a  rough  and  dusty  path,  a  short  cut  to 
the  fair  broad  highway  of  prosperity;    but  I  thank  him 
heartily,  for  without  his  urging  voice,  his  steadily  point- 
ing hand,  I  should  have  continued  plodding  along  in  the 
dust  —  heaven  knows  how  long. 

One  of  the  few  people  I  came  to  know  well  in  Cincin- 
nati was  John  A.  Cockerill.  At  that  time  he  was  the 
city  editor  on  the  Enquirer,  and  my  devoted  friend.  We 
were  both  young,  poor,  energetic,  ambitious.  We  ex- 
changed confidences,  plans,  hopes,  and  dreams,  and  were 
as  happy  as  possible  so  long  as  we  were  just  plain  friends, 
but  as  soon  as  sentiment  pushed  in  and  an  engagement 
was  acknowledged  between  us,  we,  as  the  farmer  says: 

"  Quarrel'd  and  fit  —  and  scratched  and  bit  — " 

For  John  was  jealous  of  my  profession,  which  made  my 
temper  hot,  and  we  were  a  queer  engaged  pair.  I  used 
to  say  to  him  :*  "  It's  just  a  question  which  one  of  us 
suicides  first ! " 

Yet  on  some  days  we  would  forget  we  were  engaged 
and  be  quite  cheerful  and  happy ;  and  when  I  came  back 
from  New  York,  I  cried :  "  Congratulate  me,  John,  I've 
got  an  engagement,  so  we  can't  nag  each  other  to  death 

259 


260  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

for  a  year  at  least !  "  and  though  that  gave  a  lovely  open- 
ing for  a  quarrel  he  passed  it  by,  congratulating  me  very 
gently  instead,  but  very  sadly,  adding :  "  You  are  get- 
ting so  far  ahead  of  me,  dear  —  and  you  will  learn  to 
despise  a  man  who  comes  toiling  always  behind  you !  " 

A  statement  that  came  so  dangerously  near  the  truth 
that  it  threw  me  into  a  passion,  and  we  had  a  battle  royal 
then  and  there.  However,  we  parted  in  a  gale  of  laugh- 
ter, for  as  John  suddenly  discovered  he  was  overstaying 
his  intended  short  visit,  he  sprang  up  and  grabbed  his 
hat  and  exclaimed :  "  Well,  good-by,  Clara,  we  haven't 
indulged  in  much  sentiment  to-day,  but,"  drawing  a  long, 
satisfied  breath,  "  we've  enjoyed  a  good  lusty  old  row 
all  the  same !  " 

No  wonder  we  laughed.  We  were  a  rare  engaged 
couple.  Lovers?  why  Cupid  had  never  even  pointed  an 
arrow  at  us  for  fun!  We  were  chums  —  good  fellows 
in  sunny  weather ;  loyal,  active  friends  in  time  of  trouble, 
and,  after  I  came  to  New  York,  and  found  quarreling  at 
length,  with  pen  and  ink,  too  fatiguing,  I  broke  the  en- 
gagement, and  we  were  happy  ever  after  —  our  friend- 
ship always  standing  firm  through  the  years ;  and  when, 
in  the  Herald's  interests,  he  started  on  that  last  long 
journey  to  report  upon  the  Japanese-Chinese  War,  he 
said  to  me :  "  I  never  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
word  friendship  until  that  day  when  you  flung  all  your 
natural  caution  —  your  calm  good  sense  aside,  and  rushed 
through  the  first  cheering  message  that  reached  me  after 
that  awful  St.  Louis  shooting :  '  You  acted  in  self-de- 
fence, I  know  —  command  any  service  from  your  faith- 
ful friend/  that's  what  you  said,  over  your  full  name, 
while  as  yet  you  knew  absolutely  nothing.  And  when 
I  realized  that,  guilty  or  innocent,  you  meant  to  stand 
by  me,  I  —  well,  you  and  my  blessed  mother  live  in  a 
little  corner  of  my  heart,  just  by  your  two  loyal  selves." 

And  when  he  left  me  he  carried  on  either  cheek  as 
affectionate  a  kiss  as  I  knew  how  to  put  there,  and  again, 
and  for  the  last  time,  we  parted  in  a  gale  of  laughter,  as 


A  SEASON   IN   HALIFAX          261 

he  cried :  "  You  would  have  seen  me  in  the  bottomless 
pit  before  you  would  have  done  that  in  Cincinnati ! " 

"  Oh,  well,"  I  replied,  "  we  both  preferred  quarreling 
to  kissing  in  those  days !  " 

"  Speak  for  yourself !  "  he  laughed,  and  so  we  parted 
for  all  time. 

I  had  returned  to  my  work  in  Cincinnati ;  had  thanked 
the  Washington  and  San  Francisco  managers  for  their 
offers  of  engagements,  and  was  putting  in  some  spare 
moments  in  worrying  about  the  summer,  when  (without 
meaning  to  be  irreverent)  God  opened  a  door  right  be- 
fore me.  Never,  since  I  had  closed  a  small  geography 
at  school,  had  I  heard  of  "  Halifax,"  save  as  a  substitute 
for  another  place  beginning  with  H,  but  here,  all  sud- 
denly, I  was  invited  to  Halifax  —  not  sent  there  in  anger, 
for,  oh,  incredible !  for  a  four,  perhaps  six,  weeks*  summer 
engagement.  Was  I  not  happy?  Was  I  not  grateful? 
One  silver  half-dollar  did  I  recklessly  give  away  to  the 
Irish  washerwoman,  who  had  said :  "  God  niver  shuts 
one  dure  without  openin'  anither !  "  I  could  not  help 
it,  and  she,  being  in  trouble  at  the  time,  declared,  with 
hope  rising  in  her  tired  old  eyes,  that  she  would  "  at 
onct  burn  a  waxen  candle  before  the  blissed  Virgin ! " 
Poor  soul!  I  hope  her  loving  offering  found  favor  in 
the  eyes  of  tfie  gentle  Saint  she  honored ! 

I  had  a  benefit  in  Cincinnati  before  the  season  closed, 
and  so  it  came  about  that  I  was  able  to  get  my  mother 
a  spring  gown  and  bonnet  that  she  might  go  home  in 
proper  state  to  Cleveland  for  a  visit ;  while  I  turned  my 
face  toward  Halifax,  the  picturesque,  to  play  a  summer 
engagement,  and  then  to  make  my  way  to  New  York 
and  find  a  resting-place  for  my  foot  in  some  hotel,  while 
I  searched  for  rooms  to  which  my  mother  might  be  sum- 
moned, for  I  had  determined  I  could  board  no  longer. 

If  we  had  rooms  we  could  make  a  little  home  in  them. 
If  we  had  still  to  go  hungry,  we  could  at  least  hunger 
after  our  own  fashion,  and  endure  our  privations  in  de- 
cent privacy.  So,  with  plans  all  made,  I  landed  at  Hali- 


262  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

fax  and  felt  a  shock  of  surprise,  followed  by  a  pang  of 
homesickness,  at  the  first  sight  of  the  scarlet  splendor 
of  the  British  flag  waving  against  the  pale  blue  sky,  when 
instinctively  my  eyes  had  looked  for  the  radiant  beauty 
of  Old  Glory.  The  next  thing  that  impressed  me  was 
the  astonishing  number  of  people  who  were  in  mourn- 
ing. Men  in  shops,  in  offices,  on  the  streets,  were  wear- 
ing crepe  bands  about  their  left  arms,  and  women,  like 
moving  pillars  of  crepe,  dotted  the  walks  thickly,  dark- 
ened the  shops,  and  gloomed  in  private  carriages.  What 
does  it  mean?  I  asked.  I  never  before  saw  so  many 
people  in  black.  And  one  made  answer :  "  Ah,  your 
question  shows  you  are  a  stranger,  or  you  would  know 
that  there  are  few  well-to-do  homes  and  no  business 
house  in  Halifax  that  does  not  mourn  for  at  least  one 
victim  of  that  great  mystery  of  the  sea,  the  unexplained 
loss  of  the  City  of  Boston  —  that  monster  steamer, 
crowded  with  youth  and  beauty,  wealth,  power,  and 
brains!" 

I  recalled  then  how,  at  the  most  fashionable  wedding 
of  the  year  in  Cincinnati,  the  bride  and  groom  had  been 
dragged  from  the  just-beginning  wedding-breakfast,  and 
rushed  off  at  break-neck  speed  that  they  might  be  in  time 
for  the  sailing  of  the  City  of  Boston,  and  after  her  sail- 
ing no  word  ever  came  of  her.  What  had  been  her  fate 
no  man  knew  —  no  man  knows  to-day.  The  ocean  gave 
no  sign,  no  clew,  as  it  often  has  done  in  other  disasters. 
It  sent  back  no  scrap  of  wood,  of  oar,  of  boat,  of  mast, 
of  life-preserver  —  nothing,  nothing!  No  fire  had  been 
sighted  by  other  ships.  Had  she  been  in  collision  with 
an  iceberg,  been  caught  in  the  centre  of  a  tornado,  had  she 
run  upon  a  derelict,  been  stricken  by  lightning,  been 
blown  up  by  explosion  ?  No  answer  had  ever  come  from 
the  mighty  bosom  of  the  deep,  that  will  keep  its  grim 
secret  until  the  awful  day  when,  trembling  at  God's  own 
command,  it  will  give  up  its  dead !  Meantime  thousands 
of  tender  ties  were  broken.  The  awful  mystery  shroud- 
ing the  fate  of  the  floating  city  turned  more  than  one 


NEW  FRIENDS  263 

brain,  and  sent  mourners  to  mad-houses  to  end  their 
ruined  lives.  Halifax  was  a  very  sad  city  that  summer. 

I  met  in  the  company  there  Mr.  Leslie  Allen  (the 
father  of  Miss  Viola  Allen),  Mr.  Dan  Maginnis  (the 
Boston  comedian),  and  Mr.  John  W.  Norton.  The 
future  St.  Louis  manager  was  then  leading  man,  and  the 
friendship  we  formed  while  working  together  through 
those  summer  weeks  was  never  broken,  never  clouded, 
but  lasted  fair  and  strong  up  to  that  very  day  when,  sit- 
ting in  the  train  on  his  way  to  New  York,  John  Norton 
had,  in  that  flashing  moment  of  time,  put  off  mortality. 

He  had  changed  greatly  from  the  John  Norton  of  those 
early  days.  He  had  known  cruel  physical  suffering,  and 
while  he  had  won  friends  and  money,  shame  and  bitter 
sorrow  had  been  brought  upon  him  by  another.  No  won- 
der the  laughing  brightness  had  gone  out  of  him.  It 
was  said  that  he  believed  in  but  two  people  on  earth  — 
Mary  Anderson  and  Clara  Morris,  and  he  said  of  them: 
"  One  is  a  Catholic,  the  other  an  Episcopalian ;  they  are 
next-door  neighbors  in  religion;  they  are  both  honest, 
God-fearing  women,  and  the  only  ones  I  bow  my  head 
to."  Oh,  poor  man!  to  have  grown  so  bitter!  But  in 
the  Halifax  days  he  loved  his  kind,  and  was  as  full  of 
fun  as  a  boy  of  ten,  as  full  of  kindness  as  would  be  the 
gentlest  woman. 

Mr.  Maginnis  had  his  sister-in-law  with  him,  a  help- 
less invalid.  She  knew  her  days  were  numbered,  yet  she 
always  faced  us  smilingly  and  with  pleasant  words.  She 
was  passionately  fond  of  driving,  but  dreaded  lonely  out- 
ings; so  clubbing  together,  that  no  one  might  feel  a 
sense  of  obligation,  we  four,  Dan  and  his  sister,  John 
Norton  and  I,  used  evenly  to  divide  the  expense  of  a 
big,  comfortable  carriage,  and  go  on  long,  delightful 
drives  about  the  outskirts  of  the  gray  old  hilly  city. 

The  stolid  publicity  of  Tommy  Atkins's  love-making 
had  at  first  covered  us  with  confusion,  but  we  soon  grew 
used  to  the  sight  of  the  scarlet  sleeve  about  the  willing 
waist  in  the  most  public  places,  while  a  loving  smack, 


264  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

coming  from  the  direction  of  a  park  bench,  simply  be- 
came a  sound  quite  apropos  to  the  situation. 

One  yellow-haired,  plaided  and  kilted  young  High- 
lander, whom  I  came  upon  in  a  public  garden,  just  as  he 
lifted  his  head  from  an  explosive  kiss  on  his  sweetheart's 
lips,  startled  at  my  presence,  flushing  red,  lifted  his  hand 
in  a  half-salute,  and  at  the  same  moment,  in  laughing 
apologetic  confusion,  he  —  winked  at  me !  And  his 
flushing  young  face  was  so  bonnie,  that  had  I  known 
how  I  believe  in  my  heart  I'd  have  winked  back,  just 
from  sheer  good-fellowship  and  understanding. 

In  that  short  season  I  had  one  experience,  the  mem- 
ory of  which  makes  me  pull  a  wry  face  to  this  day. 
I  played  Juliet  to  a  "  woman-Romeo "  —  a  so  plump 
Romeo,  who  seemed  all  French  heels,  tights,  and  wig, 
with  Romeo  marked  "  absent."  I  little  dreamed  I  was 
bidding  a  personal  farewell  to  Shakespeare  and  the  old 
classic  drama,  as  I  really  was  doing. 

One  other  memory  of  that  summer  engagement  that 
sticks  is  of  that  performance  of  Boucicault's  "  Jessie 
Brown,  or  the  Siege  of  Lucknow,"  in  which  real  soldiers 
acted  as  supernumeraries,  and  having  been  too  well 
treated  beforehand  and  being  moved  by  the  play,  they 
became  so  hot  that  they  attacked  the  mutineers  not  only 
with  oaths  but  with  clubbed  muskets ;  and  while  blood 
was  flowing  and  heads  being  cracked  in  sickening  earnest 
on  one  side  of  the  stage,  a  sudden  wall-rending  howl  of 
derisive  laughter  rose  from  that  part  of  the  theatre 
favored  by  soldiers.  I  saw  women  holding  programmes 
close,  close  to  their  eyes,  and  knew  by  that  that  some- 
thing was  awfully  wrong. 

The  Scotch  laddies  were  pouring  over  the  wall,  coming 
to  the  rescue  of  the  starving  besieged.  I  looked  behind 
me.  The  wall,  a  stage  wall,  was  cleated  down  the  mid- 
dle to  keep  the  join  there  firm,  and  no  less  than  three 
of  the  soldiers  had  had  portions  of  their  clothing  caught 
by  the  cleats  as  they  scaled  the  wall.  The  cloth  would 
not  tear,  the  men  were  too  mad  to  be  able  to  see,  and 


SETTLING   IN   NEW   YORK        265 

there  they  hung,  kicking  like  fiends  and  —  well,  the  words 
of  a  ginny  old  woman,  who  sold  apples  and  oranges  in 
front  of  the  house,  will  explain  the  situation.  She  cried 
out,  at  the  top  of  her  voice :  "  Yah !  yah !  why  do  ye  no 
pull  down  yer  kilties,  instead  o'  kickin'  there  ?  yah !  yer 
no  decent  —  do  you  ken  ?  "  and  the  curtain  had  to  come 
whirling  down  before  the  proper  time  to  save  the  lives 
of  the  men  being  pounded  to  death,  and  the  feelings  of 
the  women  who  were  being  shamed  to  death. 

A  surgeon  had  to  attend  to  two  heads  before  their 
owners  could  leave  the  theatre,  and  after  that  an  officer 
was  kind  enough  to  come  and  take  charge  of  the  men 
loaned  to  the  manager. 

Then  I  bade  the  people,  whom  I  had  found  so  pleas- 
ant, good-by  —  Mr.  Louis  Aldrich  arriving  as  I  was 
about  leaving,  keen,  clever,  active,  full  of  visions,  of 
plans,  just  as  he  is  to-day.  I  and  my  little  dog-com- 
panion made  our  way  to  New  York.  A  lady  and  gentle- 
man, traveling  acquaintances,  advised  me  to  go  to  the 
St.  Nicholas,  and  as  all  hotels  looked  alike  to  me  I  went 
there.  My  worst  dread  was  the  dining-room.  I  could 
not  afford  to  take  meals  privately,  yet  how  could  I  face 
that  great  roomful  of  people  alone!  At  last  I  resolved 
on  a  plan  of  action.  I  went  up  to  the  head  waiter  — 
from  his  manner  an  invisible  crown  pressed  his  brow; 
his  eyes  gazed  coldly  above  my  humble  head,  his  "  Eh  ? 
—  beg  pardon !  "  was  haughty  and  curt,  yet,  believe  it 
or  not,  when  I  told  him  I  was  quite  alone,  and  asked 
could  he  place  me  at  some  quiet  retired  table,  he  became 
human,  he  looked  straightly  and  kindly  at  me.  He  him- 
self escorted  me,  not  to  a  seat  in  line  with  the  kitchen 
smells  or  the  pantry  quarrels,  as  I  had  expected,  but  to 
a  very  retired,  very  pleasant  table  by  an  open  window, 
and  assured  me  the  seat  should  be  reserved  for  me  every 
day  of  my  stay,  and  only  ladies  seated  there.  I  was 
grateful  from  my  heart,  and  I  mention  it  now  simply  to 
show  the  general  willingness  there  is  in  America  to  aid, 
to  oblige  the  unprotected  woman  traveler. 


266  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

Naturally  anxious  to  find,  as  quickly  as  possible,  a 
less  expensive  dwelling-place,  I  showed  my  utter  igno- 
rance of  the  city  by  the  blunder  I  made  in  joyfully 
engaging  rooms  in  a  quiet  old-fashioned  brick  house  be- 
cause it  was  on  Twenty-first  Street  and  the  theatre  was 
on  Twenty-fourth,  and  the  walk  would  be  such  a  short 
one.  All  good  New  Yorkers  will  know  just  how  "  short  " 
that  walk  was  when  I  add  that  to  reach  the  neat  little 
brick  house  I  had  first  to  cross  to  Second  Avenue,  and, 
alas !  for  me  on  stormy  nights,  there  was  no  cross-town 
car,  then. 

However,  the  rooms  were  sunny  and  neatly  furnished ; 
the  rent  barely  within  my  reach,  but  the  entire  Kiersted 
family  were  so  unaffectedly  kind  and  treated  me  so  like 
a  rather  overweighted  young  sister  that  I  could  not  have 
been  driven  away  from  the  house  with  a  stick.  I  tele- 
graphed to  mother  to  come.  She  came. 

To  the  waiter  who  feeling  the  crown  upon  his  brow 
yet  treated  me  with  almost  fatherly  kindness,  I  gave  a 
small  parting  offering  and  my  thanks ;  and  to  the  chamber- 
maid also  —  she  with  the  pure  complexion,  bred  from 
buttermilk  and  potatoes,  and  the  brogue  rich  and  thick 
enough  to  cut  with  a  knife  —  who  had  "  discoursed  "  to 
me  at  great  length  on  religion,  on  her  own  chances  of 
matrimony,  on  the  general  plan  of  the  city,  describing 
the  "  lay  "  of  the  diagonal  avenues,  their  crossing  streets 
and  occasional  junctures,  in  such  confusing  terms  that 
a  listening  city-father  would  have  sent  out  and  borrowed 
a  blind  man's  dog  to  help  him  find  his  home.  Still  she 
had  talked  miles  a  day  with  the  best  intentions,  and  I 
made  my  small  offering  to  her  in  acknowledgment,  and 
leaving  her  very  red  with  pleasure,  I  departed  from  the 
hotel.  That  blessed  evening  found  my  mother  and  me 
house-keeping  at  last  —  at  last!  And  as  we  sat  over  our 
tea,  little  Bertie,  on  the  piano-stool  at  my  side,  ate  but- 
tered toast ;  then,  feeling  license  in  the  air,  slipped  down, 
crept  under  the  table,  and  putting  beseeching  small  paws 
on  mother's  knee,  ate  more  buttered  toast  —  came  back 


HOUSE-KEEPING  AGAIN          267 

to  me  and  the  piano-stool,  and  bringing  forth  all  her 
blandishments  pleaded  for  a  lump  of  sugar.  She  knew 
it  was  wrong,  she  knew  I  knew  it  was  wrong,  but,  good 
heavens !  it  was  our  house-warming  —  Bertie  got  the 
sugar.  So  we  were  settled  and  happily  ready  to  begin 
the  new  life  in  the  great  strange  city. 


CHAPTER   THIRTY-SECOND 

I  Recall  Mr.  John  E.  Owens,  and  How  He  u  Settled  my 

Hash." 

JUST  previous  to  my  coming  East  I  met,  for  the 
first  time,  Mr.  John  E.  Owens.     He  was  considered 
a  wealthy  man,  and  was  at  the  height  of  his  popu- 
larity as  a  comedian.     He  was  odd,  even  his  mar- 
riage seemed  an  expression  of  eccentricity,  and  one  felt 
as  if  one  had  received  a  dash  of  cold  water  in  the  face 
when  the  hot-tempered,  peppery,  and  decidedly  worldly 
Mr.  Owens  presented  the  little  orthodox  Quakeress,  with 
a  countenance  of  gentle  severity,  as  his  wife. 

She  wore  the  costume  of  her  people,  too,  and  watched 
him  above  her  knitting-needles  with  folded  lips  and  con- 
demning eye  as  he  strutted  and  fumed  and  convulsed  his 
audience.  She  was  said  to  be  a  most  tender  and  gentle 
nurse  and,  indeed,  a  devoted  wife,  but  she  certainly 
seemed  to  look  down  upon  theatrical  life  and  people. 

Mr.  Owens  was  telling  me  she  was  a  clever  business 
woman,  with  a  quick  eye  for  a  good  investment,  when 
I  jestingly  answered :  "  That  seems  to  be  a  peculiarity 
of  the  sect  —  thee  will  recall  the  fact  that  William  Penn 
showed  that  same  quality  of  eye  in  his  beautiful  and 
touching  relations  with  the  shrewd  and  knowing  Ind- 
ians," and  in  the  middle  of  his  laugh,  his  mouth  shut 
suddenly,  his  eyes  rolled :  "  Oh,  Lord !  "  he  said,  "  you've 
done  for  yourself  —  she  heard  you,  your  fate's  fixed !  " 
'  But,"  I  exclaimed,  "  I  was  just  joking." 
"  No  go !  "  he  answered,  mournfully,  "  the  eye  that  can 
see  the  main  chance  so  clearly  is  blind  to  a  joke.  She 
has  you  down  now  on  her  list  of  the  ungodly.  No  use 
trying  to  explain  —  I  gave  that  up  years  ago.  Fact  of 

268 


MR.  JOHN   E.  OWENS  269 

the  matter  is,  when  that  Quakeress-wife  of  mine  puts 
her  foot  down  —  I  —  well,  I  take  mine  up,  but  hers  stays 
right  there." 

Mr.  Owens  was  of  medium  height  and  very  brisk  in 
all  his  movements,  walking  with  a  short  and  quick  little 
step.  He  had  a  wide  mouth,  good  teeth,  and  a  funny 
pair  of  eyes.  The  eyeballs  were  very  large  and  round,  and 
he  showed  an  astonishing  amount  of  their  whites,  which 
were  of  an  unusual  brilliancy  and  lustre;  this,  added  to 
his  power  of  rolling  them  wildly  about  in  their  sockets, 
made  them  very  funny;  indeed,  they  reminded  many 
people  of  a  pair  of  large  peeled  onions. 

I  think  his  most  marked  peculiarity  was  his  almost 
frantic  desire  to  provoke  laughter  in  the  actors  about 
him.  He  would  willingly  throw  away  an  entire  scene 
—  that  is,  destroy  the  illusion  of  the  audience  —  in  order 
to  secure  a  hearty  laugh  from  some  actor  or  actress  whom 
he  knew  not  to  be  easily  moved  to  laughter;  and  what 
was  more  astonishing  still,  if  an  actress  in  playing  a 
scene  with  him  fell  from  tittering  into  helpless  laughter 
and  failed  to  speak  her  lines,  he  made  no  angry  protest, 
but  regarded  the  situation  with  dancing  eyes  and  de- 
lighted smiles,  seeming  to  accept  the  breakdown  as  proof 
positive  that  he  was  irresistible  as  a  fun-maker. 

For  some  reason  I  never  could  laugh  at  "  Solon 
Shingle."  Mr.  Owens  had  opened  in  that  part,  and  as 
I  stood  in  the  entrance  watching  the  performance,  my 
face  was  as  grave  as  that  of  the  proverbial  judge.  He 
noticed  it  at  once,  and  paused  a  moment  to  stare  at  me. 
Next  morning,  just  as  he  entered  and  crossed  to  the 
prompt-table  at  rehearsal,  I,  in  listening  to  a  funny  story, 
broke  out  in  my  biggest  laugh.  Open  flew  the  star's 
eyes,  up  slid  his  eyebrows. 

"Ha!  ha!"  said  he,  "ha!  ha!  there's  a  laugh  for 
you  —  by  Jove,  that's  a  laugh  as  is  a  laugh !  " 

I  turned  about  and  faced  him.  He  recognized  me 
instantly.  "  Well,  blast  my  cats !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  say, 
you  young  hyena,  you're  the  girl  that  wouldn't  laugh  at 


270  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

me  last  night.  I  thought  you  couldn't,  and  just  listen 
to  your  roars  now  over  some  tomfoolery.  What  was  the 
matter  with  me,  if  you  please,  mum  ?  "" 

I  stood  in  helpless,  awkward  embarrassment,  then, 
drawing  in  his  lip  and  bulging  out  his  eyes  until  they 
threatened  to  leap  from  their  places,  he  advanced  upon 
me,  exclaiming:  "  Spare  me  these  protestations  and  ex- 
planations, I  beg ! "  then  tapped  me  on  the  chest  with  his 
forefinger  and,  added,  in  a  different  tone :  "  My  young 
friend,  I'll  make  you  laugh  or  I'll  cut  my  throat !  "  next 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  called :  "  Everybody  ready  for 
the  first  act  ?  Come  on,  come  on,  let's  get  at  it !  " 

Rehearsal  began  and  Mr.  Owens  did  not  have  to  cut 
his  throat. 

Funny  in  many  things,  it  was  the  old  farce  of  "  Forty 
Winks  "  that  utterly  undid  me,  and  not  only  sat  me 
violently  and  flatly  down  upon  the  entrance  floor,  but  set 
me  shrieking  with  such  misguided  force  that  next  day 
all  the  muscles  across  and  near  my  diaphragm  were  too 
lame  and  sore  for  me  to  catch  a  breath  in  comfort.  Per- 
haps that's  not  the  right  word,  and  I  may  not  be  locating 
the  lamed  muscles  properly,  but  if  you  will  go  to  see 
some  comedian  who  will  make  you  laugh  until  you  cry, 
and  cry  until  you  scream,  and  laugh  and  cry  and  scream 
until  you  only  breathe  in  gasps  and  sobs,  you  will  next 
morning  know  exactly  which  muscles  I  have  been  re- 
ferring to  —  even  if  you  haven't  got  a  diaphragm  about 
you. 

But  really  the  mad  absurdities  Mr.  Owens  indulged 
in  that  night  might  have  made  the  very  Sphinx  smile 
stonily.  As  a  miserly  old  man,  eating  his  bread-and- 
cheese  supper  in  his  cheap  little  bedroom,  and  retiring 
for  the  night  only  to  be  aroused  by  officers  who  are  in 
pursuit  of  a  flying  man,  and  think  they  have  now  found 
him.  Not  much  to  go  upon,  that,  but,  oh,  if  you  could 
have  seen  his  ravening  hunger;  have  seen  his  dog-like 
snaps  at  falling  crumbs ;  his  slanting  of  the  plate  against 
the  light  to  see  if  any  streak  of  butter  was  being  left; 


MR.  OWENS'S  ABSURDITIES       271 

his  scooping  up  of  bread-crumbs  from  his  red-handker- 
chief lap,  and  eager  licking  up  of  the  same ;  have  seen 
him  sorting  out  his  money  and  laying  aside  the  thin,  worn 
pennies  to  give  the  waiter;  breaking  off  the  hardened 
grease  that  in  melting  had  run  down  the  candle's  side, 
putting  it  away  in  his  valise,  "  to  grease  his  boots  next 
winter"  (a  line  he  introduced  for  my  especial  benefit). 

Having  gone  up-stage  and  taken  off  his  shoes,  he  sud- 
denly bethought  him  that  there  might  be  a  few  crumbs 
on  the  floor,  and  taking  his  candle,  down  he  came  to  look, 
and  turning  his  back  to  the  audience,  they  screamed  with 
sudden  laughter,  for  two  shining  bare  heels  were  plainly 
showing  through  his  ragged  black  woollen  socks.  He 
paid  no  heed,  but  sought  diligently,  and  when  he  found 
a  crumb  he  put  his  finger  to  his  lip  to  moisten  it,  and 
pouncing  upon  the  particle,  conveyed  it  to  his  mouth,  and 
mumbled  so  luxuriously  one  almost  envied  him.  Then, 
remarking  that  it  was  too  cold  to  undress,  he  undressed, 
and  as  his  coat  came  off  he  started  toward  a  chair,  say- 
ing, querulously :  "  He  couldn't  abide  a  man  that  wasn't 
neat  and  careful  about  his  clothes,"  and  down  he  pitched 
the  coat  in  a  heap  upon  the  floor  in  front  of  the  chair. 
His  vest  he  dumped  beside  another  seat,  as  he  dolorously 
declared :  "  He  had  neat  habits  ever  since  his  mother  had 
taught  him  to  put  his  clothes  carefully  on  the  chair  at 
night." 

And  so  he  went  up  and  down  and  about,  until  that 
stage  was  one  litter  of  old  clothes.  Blowing  out  his  can- 
dle he  got  into  bed,  and,  shivering  with  cold,  tried  fran- 
tically to  pull  the  clothes  over  his  poor  shoulders  —  but 
all  in  vain.  At  last  a  tremendous  jerk  brought  the  quilt 
and  sheet  about  his  shoulders,  only  to  leave  his  ancient 
black  feet  facing  the  audience,  all  uncovered.  And  so 
went  on  the  struggle  between  feet  and  shoulders  until, 
worn  out,  the  old  man  finally  "  spooned  "  himself  with 
knees  in  chest,  and  so  was  covered  and  fell  asleep,  only 
to  be  aroused  by  officers,  and  turned  into  driveling  idiocy 
by  a  demand  "  for  the  girl." 


272  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

It  was  at  the  point  when,  sitting  up  in  bed,  trying,  with 
agonizing  modesty,  to  keep  covered  up,  his  eyes  whitely 
and  widely  rolling,  he  pleadingly  asked :  "  N-n-now  I 
teave  it  to  you  —  do  I  look  like  a  seducer  ? "  that  my 
knees  abandoned  me  to  my  fate,  and  sat  me  down  with 
a  vicious  thud  that  nearly  shook  the  life  out  of  me.  And 
John  Owens  sat  in  bed  and  saw  my  fall  and  rejoiced  with 
a  great  joy,  and  said :  "  Blast  my  cats  —  look  at  the  girl ! 
there,  now,  that's  something  like  laughing.  I'd  take  off 
my  hair  and  run  around  bald-headed  for  her !  " 

I  was  called  upon  to  play  blind  Bertha  to  Mr.  Owens's 
Caleb  Plummer  in  the  "  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,"  and  I 
was  in  a  great  state  of  mind,  as  I  had  only  seen  one  or 
two  blind  persons,  and  had  never  seen  a  blind  part  acted. 
I  was  driven  at  last  by  anxiety  to  ask  Mr.  Owens  if  he 
could  make  any  suggestions  as  to  business,  or  as  to  the 
walk  or  manner  of  the  blind  girl.  But  he  was  no  E.  L. 
Davenport,  he  had  no  desire  to  teach  others  to  act,  and 
he  snappishly  answered :  "  No  —  no !  I  can't  suggest 
anything  for  you  to  do  —  but  I  can  suggest  something 
for  you  not  to  do !  For  God's  sake  don't  go  about  play- 
ing the  piano  all  evening  —  that's  what  the  rest  of  'em 
do!" 

"  The  piano  ?  "  I  repeated,  stupidly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  the  piano !  D-— d  if  they  don't  make 
me  sick!  Here  they  go  —  all  the  "Berthas'!" 

He  closed  his  eyes,  screwed  up  his  face  dismally,  and 
advancing,  his  hands  before  him,  began  moving  them 
from  left  to  right  and  back,  as  though  they  were  on  a 
keyboard.  It  was  very  ridiculous. 

"  And  that's  what  they  call  blindness  —  playing  the 
piano  and  tramping  about  as  securely  as  anybody !  " 

Ah,  ah!  Mr.  Owens,  you  did  make  a  suggestion 
after  all,  though  you  did  not  mean  to  do  it,  but  I  found 
one  all  the  same  in  that  last  contemptuous  sentence, 
" tramping  about  as  securely  as  anybody"  It  quickened 
my  memory  —  I  recalled  the  piteous  uncertainty  of  move- 
ment in  the  blind ;  the  dread  hesitancy  of  the  advancing 


PLAYING  BLIND   PARTS          273 

foot,  unless  the  afflicted  one  was  on  very  familiar  ground. 
I  tried  walking  in  the  dark,  tried  walking  with  closed 
eyes.  It  was  surprising  how  quickly  my  fears  gathered 
about  my  feet.  Instinctively  I  put  out  one  hand  now  and 
then,  but  the  fear  of  bumping  into  something  was  as 
nothing  to  the  fear  of  stepping  off  or  down,  or  falling 
through  the  darkness  —  oh! 

Then  I  resolved  to  play  Bertha  with  open  eyes.  It  was 
much  the  more  difficult  way,  but  I  was  well  used  to  tak- 
ing infinite  pains  over  small  matters,  and  believing  that 
the  open,  unseeing  eye  was  far  more  pathetic  than  the 
closed  eye,  I  proceeded  to  work  out  my  idea  of  how  to 
produce  the  unseeing  look.  By  careful  experiment  I 
found  that  if  the  eyes  were  very  calm  in  expression,  very 
slow  in  movement,  and  at  all  times  were  raised  slightly 
above  the  proper  point  of  vision,  the  effect  was  really 
that  of  blindness. 

It  was  unspeakably  fatiguing  to  keep  looking  just 
above  people's  heads,  instead  of  into  their  faces,  as  was 
my  habit,  but  where  is  the  true  actor  or  actress  who  stops 
to  count  the  cost  in  pain  or  in  inconvenience  when  striv- 
ing to  build  up  a  character  that  the  public  may  recognize? 
Says  the  ancient  cook-book :  "  First  catch  your  hare,  and 
then  —  " ;  so  with  the  actor,  first  catch  your  idea,  your 
desired  effect,  and  then  reproduce  it  (if  you  can).  But 
in  the  case  of  blind  Bertha  I  must  have  reproduced  with 
some  success  the  effect  I  had  been  studying,  for  an  old 
newspaper  clipping  beside  me  says  that :  "  The  doubt- 
ing, hesitating  advance  of  her  foot,  the  timid  uncertainty 
of  her  occasional  investigating  hand  spelled  blindness  as 
clearly  as  did  her  patient  unseeing  eyes,"  and  for  my  re- 
ward that  wretched  man  amused  himself  by  pulling  faces 
at  me  and  trying  to  break  me  down  in  my  singing  of 
"  Auld  Robin  Grey,"  until  I  was  obliged  to  sing  with 
my  eyes  tight  shut  to  save  myself  from  laughter;  and 
when  the  curtain  had  fallen  he  said  to  me :  "  I'll  settle 
your  hash  for  you  some  night,  young  woman,  you  see  if 
I  don't  —  you  just  wait  now!  "  And  the  next  season,  in 


274  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

Cincinnati,  in  very  truth,  he  did  "  settle  my  hash  "  for 
me,  to  his  great  delight  and  my  vexation. 

He  was  so  very,  very  funny  as  Major  Wellington  de 
Boots  in  "  Everybody's  Friend  " ;  his  immense  self-satis- 
faction, his  stiff  little  strut,  his  martial  ardor,  his  wild- 
eyed  cowardice  were  trying  enough,  but  when  he  delib- 
erately acted  at  you  —  oh,  dear!  He  would  look  me 
straight  in  the  eye  and  make  faces  at  me,  until  I  sobbed 
at  every  breath.  Then  he  had  a  wretched  little  trick  of 
rising  slowly  on  his  toes  and  sinking  back  to  his  heels 
again,  while  he  cocked  his  head  to  one  side  so  like  a  know- 
ing old  dicky-bird  that  he  simply  convulsed  me  with 
laughter. 

I  was  his  Mrs.  Swansdown,  and  I  had  kept  steady  and 
never  lost  a  line,  until  we  came  to  the  scene  where,  as 
my  landlord  and  would-be  husband,  he  brought  some 
samples  of  wall-paper  for  me  to  choose  from.  Where, 
in  heaven's  name,  he  ever  found  those  rolls  of  paper  I 
can't  imagine.  They  were  not  merely  hideous  but  gro- 
tesque as  well,  and  were  received  with  shouts  of  laughter 
by  the  house. 

With  true  shopman's  touch,  he  would  send  each  piece 
unrolling  toward  the  footlights,  while  holding  up  its 
breadth  of  ugliness  for  Mrs.  Swansdoivn's  inspection  and 
approval,  and  every  piece  that  he  thus  displayed  he 
greeted  at  first  sight  with  words  of  hearty  admiration  for 
its  beauty  and  perfect  suitability,  until,  catching  disap- 
proval on  the  widow's  face,  he  in  the  same  breath,  with 
lightning  swift  hypocrisy,  turned  his  sentence  into  con- 
temptuous disparagement,  and  fairly  shook  his  audience 
with  laughter  at  the  quickness  of  his  change  of  opinion. 

At  last  he  unfurled  a  piece  of  paper  whose  barbarity 
of  design  and  criminality  of  color  I  remember  yet.  The 
dead-white  ground  was  widely  and  alternately  striped 
with  a  dark  Dutch  blue  and  a  dingy  chocolate  brown,  and 
about  the  blue  stripes  there  twined  a  large  pumpkin- 
colored  morning-glory,  while  from  end  to  end  the  brown 
stripes  were  solemnly  pecked  at  by  small  magenta  birds. 


"SETTLING   MY    HASH"  275 

The  thing  was  as  ludicrous  as  it  was  ugly  —  an  Indian 
clay-idol  might  have  cracked  into  smiles  of  derision  over 
its  artistic  qualities. 

Then  Mr.  Owens,  bursting  into  encomiums  over  its 
desirability  as  a  hanging  for  the  drawing-room  walls  of  a 
modest  little  retreat,  caught  my  frown,  and  continued: 
"  Er  —  er,  or  perhaps  you'd  prefer  it  as  trousering?  "  then, 
delightedly :  "  Yes  —  yes,  you're  quite  right,  it  is  a  neat 
thing  —  cut  full  at  the  knee,  eh?  Close  at  the  foot,  yes, 
yes,  I  see,  regular  peg-tops  —  great  idea!  I'll  send  you 
a  pair  at  once.  Oh,  good  Lord!  what  have  I  done!  I 
—  I  —  mean,  I'll  have  a  pair  myself,  Mrs.  Swansdown, 
cut  from  this  very  piece  of  your  sweet  selection !  " 

Ah,  well !  that  ended  the  scene  so  far  as  my  help  went. 
The  shrieking  audience  drowned  my  noise  for  a  time, 
but,  alas,  it  recovered  directly,  having  no  hysterics  to 
battle  with,  while  I  buried  my  head  deep  in  the  sofa- 
pillows  and  rolled  and  screamed  and  wept  and  bit  my 
lips,  clinched  my  hands,  and  vainly  fought  for  my  self- 
control;  while  all  the  time  I  saw  a  pair  of  trousers  cut 
from  that  awful  wall-paper,  and  Mr.  Owens  just  bulged 
his  white  shiny  eyes  at  me  and  pranced  about  and  rejoiced 
at  my  downfall,  while  the  audience,  seeing  what  the 
trouble  was,  laughed  all  over  again,  and  —  and  —  well, 
"  my  hash  "  was  very  thoroughly  "  settled,"  even  to  the 
entire  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Owens's  self. 


CHAPTER   THIRTY-THIRD 

From  the  "  Wild  West "  I  Enter  the  Eastern  "  Parlor  of 
Home  Comedy"  —  I  Make  my  First  Appearance  in 
"  Man  and  Wife." 

THE  original  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre  was  a  tiny 
affair,  with  but  small  accommodation  for  the  pub- 
lic and  none  at  all  for  the  actor,  unless  he  bur- 
rowed for  it  beneath  the  building;  and  indeed  the  deep, 
long  basement  was  wonderfully  like  a  rabbit-warren,  with 
all  its  net-work  of  narrow  passageways,  teeming  with  life 
and  action.  The  atmosphere  down  there  was  dreadful 
—  I  usually  prefer  using  a  small  word  instead  of  a  large 
one,  but  it  would  be  nonsense  to  speak  of  the  "  air  "  in 
that  green-room,  because  there  was  none.  Atmosphere 
was  there  stagnant,  heavy,  dead,  with  not  even  an  electric 
fan  to  stir  it  up  occasionally,  and  the  whole  place  was 
filled  with  the  musty,  mouldy  odor  that  always  arises 
from  carpets  spread  in  sunless,  airless  rooms.  Gas,  too, 
burned  in  every  tiny  room,  in  every  narrow  slip  of  pas- 
sageway, and  though  it  was  all  immaculately  clean,  it 
was  still  wonderful  how  human  beings  endured  so  many 
hours  imprisonment  there. 

It  was  on  a  very  hot  September  morning  that  the  com- 
pany was  called  together  in  the  green-room  of  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Theatre.  This  first  "  call  "  of  the  season  is  gen- 
erally given  over  to  greetings  after  the  vacation,  to  chat- 
tings,  to  introductions,  to  welcomes,  and  a  final  distribu- 
tion of  parts  in  the  first  play,  and  a  notification  to  be  on 
hand  promptly  next  morning  for  work.  With  a  heavily 
throbbing  heart  I  prepared  for  the  dreaded  first  meeting 
with  all  these  strange  people,  and  when  I  grew  fairly 
choky,  I  would  say  to  myself,  "  What  nonsense,  Mr. 

276 


FIRST   NEW  YORK   SEASON       277 

Daly  or  the  prompter  will  be  there,  and  in  the  general 
introductions  you  will,  of  course,  be  included,  and  after 
that  you  will  be  all  right  —  a  smile,  a  bow,  or  a  kind 
word  will  cost  no  more  in  a  New  York  theatre  than  in 
any  other  one,"  which  goes  to  prove  what  a  very  ignorant 
young  person  I  was  then.  In  looking  back  to  that  time, 
I  often  drop  into  the  habit  of  considering  myself  as  an- 
other person,  and  sometimes  I  am  sorry  for  the  girl  of 
that  day,  and  say :  "  You  poor  thing,  if  you  had  only 
known !  "  or  again,  "  What  wasted  trust  —  what  needless 
sorrow,  too !  "  But  I  was  then  like  the  romping,  trust- 
ing, all-loving  puppy-dog  who  believes  every  living  being 
his  friend,  until  a  kick  or  a  blow  convinces  him  to  the 
contrary. 

I  had  two  dresses,  neither  one  really  fit  for,  the  occa- 
sion, but  I  put  on  the  best  one,  braided  my  mass  of  hair 
into  the  then  proper  chatelaine  braids,  and  found  comfort 
in  them,  and  encouragement  in  a  fresh,  well-fitting  pair 
of  gloves.  At  half-past  ten  o'clock  I  entered  the  under- 
ground green-room.  Two  young  men  were  there  before 
me.  I  slightly  bent  my  head,  and  one  responded  doubt- 
fully, but  the  other,  with  the  blindness  of  stone  in  his 
eyes,  bowed  not  at  all.  I  sat  down  in  a  corner  —  the 
stranger  always  seeks  a  corner;  can  that  be  an  instinct, 
a  survival  from  the  time  when  a  tribe  fell  upon  the 
stranger,  and  with  the  aid  of  clubs  informed  him  of  their 
strength  and  power?  Anyway,  as  I  said,  I  sat  in  a 
corner.  There  was  the  carpet,  the  great  mirror,  the 
cushioned  bench  running  clear  around  the  room,  and  that 
was  all  —  oh,  no!  on  the  wall,  of  course,  there  hung 
that  shallow,  glass-covered  frame  or  cabinet  called,  vari- 
ously, "  the  call-board,"  the  "  call-case,"  or  even  the  "call- 
box."  It  is  the  official  voice  of  the  manager  —  when  the 
"  call-case  "  commands,  all  obey.  There,  in  writing,  one 
finds  the  orders  for  next  day's  rehearsal ;  there  one  finds 
the  cast  of  characters  in  the  plays;  there,  too,  the  re- 
quests for  the  company's  aid,  on  such  a  day,  for  such  a 
charity  benefit  appears.  Ah,  a  great  institution  is  the 


278  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

"  call-case,"  being  the  manager's  voice,  but  not  his  ears, 
which  is  both  a  comfort  and  an  advantage  at  times  to 
all  concerned. 

That  day  I  glanced  at  it ;  it  was  empty.  The  first  call 
and  cast  of  the  season  would  be  put  up  presently.  I 
wondered  how  many  disappointments  it  would  hold  for 
me.  Then  there  was  a  rustle  of  skirts,  a  tapping  of  heels, 
a  young  woman  gayly  dressed  rushed  in,  a  smile  all  ready 
for  —  oh !  she  nodded  briefly  to  the  young  men,  then  she 
saw  me  —  she  looked  full  at  me.  The  puppy-dog  trust 
arose  in  me,  I  was  a  stranger,  she  was  going  to  bow, 
perhaps  smile!  Oh,  how  thankful  I  am  that  I  was 
stopped  in  time,  before  I  had  betrayed  that  belief  to  her. 
Her  face  hardened,  her  eyes  leisurely  scorched  up  and 
down  my  poor  linen  gown,  then  she  turned  frowningly 
to  the  glass,  patted  her  bustle  into  shape,  and  flounced 
out  again.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  received  a  blow.  Then 
voices,  loudly  laughing  male  voices,  approached,  and 
three  men  came  in,  holding  their  hats  and  mopping  their 
faces.  They  "  bah-Joved  "  a  good  deal,  and  one,  big 
and  noisy,  with  a  young  face  topped  with  perfect  bald- 
ness, bowed  to  me  courteously,  the  others  did  not  see  me. 

Where,  I  thought,  was  the  manager  all  this  time  ?  Then 
more  laughter,  and  back  came  my  flouncy  young  woman 
and  two  of  her  kind  with  her;  pretty,  finely  dressed, 
badly  bred  women,  followed  by  one  whom  I  knew  in- 
stantly. One  I  had  heard  much  of,  one  to  whom  I  had 
a  letter  of  introduction  —  I  have  it  still,  by  the  way.  She 
was  gray  even  then,  plain  of  feature,  but  sweet  of  voice 
and  very  gentle  of  manner.  I  lifted  my  head  higher. 
Of  course  she  would  not  know  me  from  sole-leather,  but 
she  would  see  I  was  a  stranger  and  forlornly  alone,  and 
besides,  being  already  secure  in  her  position  in  the  company 
—  she  was  its  oldest  member  —  and  therefore,  in  a  certain 
measure,  a  hostess,  and  as  my  mere  presence  in  the  green- 
room showed  I  was  a  professional  of  some  sort  or  quality, 
both  authority  and  kindness  would  prompt  her  to  a  bow, 
a  smile,  perhaps  a  pleasant  word.  I  looked  hungrily  at 


THE   NEW  ARRIVAL  279 

her,  her  bright,  small  eyes  met  mine,  swept  swiftly  over 
me,  and  then  she  slowly  turned  her  black  silk  back  upon 
me,  the  stranger  in  her  gate ;  and  as  I  swallowed  hard  at 
the  lump  Mrs.  Gilbert's  gentle  indifference  had  brought 
to  my  throat,  my  old  sense  of  fun  came  uppermost,  and 
I  said  to  myself :  "  No  morning  is  lost  in  which  one 
learns  something,  and  I  have  discovered  that  covering  a 
club  neatly  in  velvet  improves  its  appearance,  without  in 
the  least  detracting  from  the  force  of  its  blow." 

And  then  the  passage  resounded  with  laughter  and 
heel-taps,  the  small  room  rilled  full;  there  was  a  surg- 
ing of  silken  gowns,  a  mingling  of  perfumes  and  of 
voices,  high  and  excited,  and,  I  must  add,  affected ;  much 
handshaking,  many  explosive  kisses,  and  then,  down  the 
other  passageway,  came  more  gentlemen.  They  were  a 
goodly  crowd  —  well  groomed,  well  dressed,  manly  fel- 
lows, and  all  in  high  good-humor,  except  Mr.  Davidge, 
but,  in  mercy's  name!  who  ever  saw,  who  would  have 
wished  to  see  "  rare  old  Bill "  in  a  good  humor? 

Such  gay  greetings  as  were  exchanged  around  about 
and  even  over  me,  since  my  hat  was  twice  knocked  over 
my  eyes  by  too  emphatic  embracings  in  such  crowded 
quarters  —  and  still  no  manager,  no  prompter.  When 
they  quieted  down  a  bit,  everyone  took  stock  of  me.  It 
would  have  been  a  trying  position  even  had  I  been  prop- 
erly gowned,  but  as  it  was  the  ill-suppressed  titters  of 
two  extravagantly  gowned  nonentities  and  the  swift, 
appraising  glances  of  the  others  kept  me  in  agony. 

Suddenly  a  quick  step  was  heard  approaching.  I 
nearly  laughed  aloud  in  all  my  misery  at  their  lightning- 
quick  change  of  manner.  Silence,  as  of  the  grave,  came 
upon  them.  They  all  faced  toward  the  coming  steps  — 
anxious-eyed,  but  with  smiles  just  ready  to  tremble  on 
to  their  lips  at  an  instant's  notice.  Never  had  I  seen 
anything  so  like  trick-poodles.  They  were  ready  to  do 
"  dead  dog,"  or  jump  over  a  chair,  or  walk  on  two  legs 
—  ready,  too,  for  either  the  bone  or  the  blow.  I  knew 
from  their  strained  attitude  of  attention  who  was  com- 


280  LIFE   ON    THE   STAGE 

ing,  and  next  moment,  tall  and  thin  and  dour,  Mr.  Daly 
stood  in  the  doorway.  He  neither  bowed  nor  smiled, 
but  crossly  asked :  "  Is  Miss  Morris  here  ?  " 

Everyone  looked  reproachfully  at  everyone  else  for  not 
being  the  desired  person.  Then  as  the  managerial  frown 
deepened,  from  my  corner  I  lifted  a  rather  faint  voice 
in  acknowledgment  of  my  presence,  saying :  "  Yes,  sir, 
I  am  here,"  and  he  gave  that  peculiar  "  huh !  "  of  his, 
which  seemed  to  be  a  combination  of  groan  and  snort,  and 
instantly  disappeared  again. 

Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  I  had  felt  myself  uncomfortable 
before,  but  now?  It  was  as  if  I  had  sprung  up  and 
shouted :  "  Say !  I'm  Miss  Morris  !  "  Everyone  gazed 
at  me  openly  now,  as  if  I  were  a  conundrum  and  they 
were  trying  to  guess  me.  I  honestly  believe  I  should 
have  broken  down  under  the  strain  in  a  moment  more, 
but  fortunately  a  slender  little  man  made  his  silent  ap- 
pearance at  one  of  the  doors  and  took  off  his  immaculate 
silk  hat,  revealing  the  thin,  blond  hair,  the  big,  pale  blue 
pop-eyes  of  James  Lewis.  Twenty  minutes  ago  my  heart 
would  have  jumped  at  sight  of  him,  but  I  had  had  a 
lesson.  I  expected  no  greeting  now,  even  from  a  former 
friend.  I  sat  quite  still,  simply  grateful  that  his  coming 
had  taken  the  general  gaze  from  my  miserable  face.  He 
shook  hands  all  round,  glanced  at  me  and  passed  by,  then 
looked  back,  came  back,  held  out  his  hand,  saying: 
"  You  stuck-up  little  brute,  I  knew  you  in  aprons  and 
pig-tails,  and  now  you  ain't  going  to  speak  to  me;  how 
are  you,  Clara  ?  " 

While  I  was  huskily  answering  him,  a  big  woman  ap- 
peared at  the  door.  Her  garments  were  aggressively 
rich,  and  lockets  (it  was  a  great  year  for  lockets)  dangled 
from  both  wrists,  from  her  watch-chain,  and  from  her 
neck-chain.  She  glittered  with  diamonds  —  in  a  street- 
dress  which  might  also  have  answered  for  a  dinner-dress. 
I  laughed  to  myself  as  I  thought  what  a  prize  she  would 
be  for  pirates.  Then  I  looked  at  her  handsome  face  and, 
as  our  eyes  met,  we  recognized  each  other  perfectly,  but 


SNUBBED  281 

my  lesson  being  learned  I  made  no  sign,  I  had  no  wish 
to  presume,  and  she  —  looked  over  my  head. 

M.  Benot,  the  Frenchman  who  died  in  harness  early 
in  the  season,  poor  little  gentleman!  came  in  then  with 
the  MSS.  and  the  parts  of  the  play,  "  Man  and  Wife." 
Silence  came  upon  the  company.  As  M.  Benot  called 
Mr.  or  Miss  So-and-so,  he  or  she  advanced  and  received 
the  part  assigned  to  them.  "  Miss  Clara  Morris !  "  I 
rose  stiffly  —  I  had  sat  so  long  in  my  corner  —  and  re- 
ceived rather  a  bulky  part.  I  bowed  silently  and  resumed 
my  seat,  but  the  place  was  for  a  moment  only  a  black, 
windy  void ;  I  had  seen  the  name  on  my  part  —  I  was 
cast  for  Blanche,  a  comedy  part! 

As  I  came  back  to  my  real  surroundings,  M.  Benot 
was  saying :  "  Eleven  o'clock  sharp  to-morrow,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  for  rehearsal." 

People  began  hurrying  out.  I  waited  a  little,  till  nearly 
all  were  gone,  whispering  "  Miss  Ethel  for  Anne,  Miss 
Ethel  for  Anne  "  when  the  handsome  "  Argosy  of  wealth  " 
sailed  up  to  me,  and,  in  a  voice  of  sweet  uncertainty,  said : 
"  I  wonder  if  you  can  possibly  recognize  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered,  smiling  broadly,  "  we  recog- 
nized each  other  at  the  moment  you  entered,  Miss 
Newton." 

She  reddened  and  stammered  something  about  "  not 
being  quite  sure  —  and  out  West,  and  now  here,"  and  as 
she  was  even  prettier  than  when  I  had  last  seen  her,  I 
told  her  so,  and  —  we  were  happy  ever  after. 

Then  I  slipped  out  of  the  theatre  and  crossed  to  Twenty- 
first  Street  safely,  but  could  control  my  grief  and  pain, 
my  mortification  and  my  disappointment,  no  longer.  Tears 
would  have  their  way,  and  I  held  my  sunshade  low  before 
my  tear-washed,  grieving  face.  Those  little  ill-suppressed 
smiles  at  my  clothes,  those  slightly  lifted  eyebrows,  and 
there  was  not  even  a  single  introduction  to  shelter  me 
to-morrow,  and  as  to  Blanche,  oh,  I  thought  "  let  her 
wait  till  I  get  home !  " 

At  last  mother  opened  the  door  for  me.     I  flung  the 


282  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

hat  from  my  aching  head,  and  as  she  silently  tied  a  wet 
handkerchief  about  my  throbbing  temples,  I  blurted  out 
three  words :  "  A  comedy  part! "  and  fell  face  downward 
on  the  bed,  and  cried  until  there  was  not  a  tear  left  in 
me,  and  considering  my  record  as  a  shedder  of  tears, 
that's  saying  a  good  deal.  Afterward  I  knelt  down  and 
hid  my  shamed  face  in  the  pillow  and  asked  forgiveness 
from  the  ever-pitiful  and  patient  One  above,  and  prayed 
for  a  clear  understanding  of  the  part  entrusted  to  me. 
Oh,  don't  be  shocked.  I  have  prayed  over  my  work  all 
my  life  long,  and  I  can't  think  the  Father  despises  any 
labor  that  is  done  to  His  honor.  And  I  humbly  gave 
over  my  further  thought  of  Anne,  and  praying  pardon 
for  the  folly  of  "  kicking  against  the  pricks  "  and  wasting 
my  scant  strength  in  useless  passion,  I  retired,  at  peace 
with  myself,  the  world,  and  even  Blanche. 

Next  morning  a  curious  thing  happened.  I  heard,  or 
thought  I  heard,  the  words :  "  The  first  shall  be  last  and 
the  last  shall  be  first,"  and  I  called  from  my  bed :  "  Did 
you  speak  to  me,  mother  ?  "  and  she  answered,  "  No." 

As  I  sat  over  my  coffee  and  rolls,  I  said,  absently: 
"  The  first  shall  be  last,  and  the  last  shall  be  first." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  mother  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  I  said.  "  The  words  were  in  my  ears  when 
I  awoke,  and  they  keep  coming  back  to  me." 

I  rose  and  dressed  for  rehearsal.     As  I  drew  on  my 

f  loves  I  heard  a  hurried  voice  asking  for  me  in  the  hall, 
recognized  it  as  M.  Benot's.  My  heart  sank  like  lead 
—  was  even  the  comedy  part  to  be  taken  from  me?  I 
opened  the  door.  Out  of  breath,  the  little  man  gasped: 
"  I  so  come  quite  quick  for  Monsieur  Da-lay.  He  make 
me  to  ask  you  right  away,  very  quick,  can  you  play  that 
part  of  Anne?  " 

My  breath  came  in  gasps,  I  might  have  been  the  run- 
ner !  I  answered,  briefly :  "  Yes !  " 

"  Then,"  said  he,  "  here  give  you  to  me  that  other  part, 
Blanche." 

I  gave  it  joyously. 


HAIL,   DALY!  283 

"  Take  you  now  this  of  Anne  and  make  of  the  great 
haste  to  Monsieur  Da-lay's  office,  before  —  comprenez- 
vous  —  before  that  you  go  on  the  stage,  or  see  anyone 
else,  he  want  you  to  make  some  lies,  I  tink,  so  you  best 
hurry!" 

"  Mother,  mother !  "  I  cried.  As  she  ran,  I  held  out 
to  her  the  part,  Anne  Sylvester,  written  large  on  it.  She 
looked,  and  said :  "  The  last  shall  be  first !  "  and  kissing 
me,  pushed  me  toward  the  stairs. 

I  almost  ran  in  my  anxiety  to  obey  orders;  my  mind 
was  in  a  state  of  happy  confusion  —  what  could  it  all 
mean  ?  The  announcement  had  been  distinctly  made  only 
yesterday  that  Miss  Agnes  Ethel  would  play  Anne.  Was 
she  ill ?  Had  she  met  with  an  accident?  And  why  should 
Mr.  Daly  wish  to  see  me  privately?  Could  he  be  going 
to  ask  me  to  read  the  part  over  to  him?  Oh,  dear, 
heaven  forbid!  for  I  could  much  more  successfully  fly 
up  into  the  blue  sky. 

The  stairs  that  led  down  from  the  sidewalk  to  the 
stage-door  passed  across  the  one,  the  only,  window  of 
the  entire  basement,  which  let  a  modicum  of  light  into 
a  tiny  den,  intended  originally  for  the  janitor's  use,  but 
taken  by  Mr.  Daly  for  his  private  office.  Here  the  great 
guiding  intelligence  of  the  entire  establishment  was  lo- 
cated. Here  he  dreamed  dreams  and  spun  webs,  watch- 
ing over  the  incomings,  the  outgoings,  the  sayings  and 
the  doings  of  every  soul  in  the  company.  He  would  have 
even  regulated  their  thoughts,  if  he  could.  I  once  said 
to  him,  after  a  rehearsal :  "  If  you  could,  sir,  while  in 
the  theatre  at  least,  you  would  force  us  all  to  think  only 
'Hail,  Daly!': 

He  laughed  a  little,  and  then  rather  grimly  remarked : 
"  That  speech  made  to  anyone  else  would  have  cost  you 
five  dollars,  Miss  Morris.  But  if  you  have  absolutely 
no  reverence,  neither  have  you  fear,  so  let  it  pass,"  and  I 
never  said  "Thank  you  "  more  sincerely  in  my  life,  for 
I  could  ill  afford  jests  at  five  dollars  apiece. 

But  that  morning  of  the  first  rehearsal,  as  I  hurried 


284  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

down  the  stairs,  the  shade  was  drawn  up  high,  and  through 
the  window  I  saw  Mr.  Daly  sitting,  swinging  about,  in 
his  desk-chair.  Before  I  could  tap,  he  called  for  me  to 
enter.  He  was  very  pale,  very  rumpled,  very  tired-look- 
ing. He  wasted  no  time  over  greetings  or  formalities, 
but  curtly  asked:  "  Can  you  play  Anne  Sylvester?" 

And,  almost  as  curtly,  I  answered :   "  Yes,  sir !  " 

The  calm  certainty  of  my  tone  seemed  to  comfort  him ; 
he  relaxed  his  seemingly  strained  muscles,  and  sank  back 
into  his  chair.  He  passed  his  long,  thin  fingers  wearily 
across  his  closed  eyes  several  times,  then,  as  he  opened 
them,  he  asked,  sharply :  "  Can  you  obey  orders  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  I've  been  obeying  orders  all  my 
life  long." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  can  you  keep  quiet  —  that's  the 
thing.  Can  you  keep  quiet  about  this  part?  " 

I  stared  silently  at  him. 

"  This  thing  is  between  ourselves.  Now,  are  you  go- 
ing to  tell  the  people  all  about  when  you  received  it  ?  " 

I  smiled  a  little  bitterly  as  I  replied :  "  I  am  hardly 
likely  to  tell  my  business  affairs  to  people  who  do  not 
speak  to  me." 

He  looked  up  quickly,  for  I  stood  all  the  time,  and 
asked :  "  What's  that,  don't  speak  to  you  ?  Were  you 
not  welcomed " 

I  broke  his  speech  with  laughter,  but  he  would  not 
smile :  "  Were  you  not  properly  treated  ?  Who  was  lack- 
ing in  courtesy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  please,"  I  hurried,  "  don't  blame  anyone.  You 
see  there  were  no  introductions  made,  and  of  course  I 
should  have  remembered  that  the  hospitality  of  the  East 
is  more  —  er  —  well,  cautious  than  that  of  the  West,  and 
besides  I  must  look  very  woolly  and  wild  to  your  people." 

"  Ah !  "  he  broke  in,  "  then  in  a  measure  the  fault  is 
mine,  since  worry  and  trouble  kept  me  away  from  the 
green-room.  But  Benot  should  have  made  introductions 
in  my  place  —  and  —  well,  I'm  ashamed  of  the  women! 
cats!  cats!" 


CHANGING   THE  CAST  285 

"  Oh,  no !  "  I  laughed,  "  not  yet,  surely  not  yet !  " 

Suddenly  he  returned  to  the  part :  "  You  will  tell  the 
people  that  you  were  to  play  Anne  in  the  first  place." 

"  But,  Mr.  Daly,"  I  cried,  "  the  whole  company  saw 
me  receive  the  part  of  Blanche." 

He  gnawed  at  the  end  of  his  mustache  in  frowning 
thought.  "  One  woman  to  whom  it  belongs  refuses  the 
part,"  he  said ;  "  another  woman,  who  can't  play  it,  de- 
mands it  from  me,  and  I  want  to  stop  her  mouth  by  mak- 
ing her  believe  the  part  was  given  to  you  before  I  knew 
her  desire  for  it  —  do  you  see  ?  " 

Yes,  with  round-eyed  astonishment,  I  saw  that  this  al- 
most tyrannically  high-handed  ruler  had  someone  to 
placate  —  someone  to  deceive. 

"  You  will  therefore  tell  the  people  you  received  Anne 
last  night." 

I  was  silent,  hot,  miserable. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  he  asked,  angrily.  "  Good  God ! 
everything  goes  wrong.  The  idiot  that  was  to  dramatize 
the  story  of  "  Man  and  Wife  "  for  me  has  failed  in  his 
work;  the  play  is  announced,  and  I  have  been  up  all 
night  writing  and  arranging  a  last  act  for  it  myself.  If 
Miss  Davenport  thinks  she  has  been  refused  Anne,  she 
will  take  her  revenge  by  refusing  to  play  Blanche,  and 
the  cast  is  so  full  it  will  require  all  my  people  —  you 
must  say  you  received  the  part  last  night ! " 

"  Mr.  Daly,"  I  said,  "  won't  you  please  trust  to  my 
discretion.  I  don't  like  lying,  even  for  my  daily  bread, 
but  if  silence  is  golden,  a  discreet  silence  is  away  above 
rubies." 

He  struck  his  hand  angrily  on  the  desk  before  him: 
"  Miss  Morris,  when  I  give  an  order " 

Up  went  my  head :  "  Mr.  Daly,  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  your  private  affairs ;  any  business  order " 

Heaven  knows  where  we  would  have  brought  up  had 
not  a  sudden  darkness  come  into  the  little  room  —  a 
woman  quickly  passed  the  window.  Mr.  Daly  sprang 
to  his  feet,  caught  my  fingers  in  a  frantic  squeeze,  and 


286  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

pushing  me  from  the  door  rapidly,  said :  "  Yes  —  yes  — 
well,  do  your  best  with  it.  I'm  very  glad  Benot  found 
you  last  night !  "  Then  turning  to  the  new-comer,  who 
had  not  been  present  the  day  before,  he  cheerfully  ex- 
claimed :  "  Well,  you  didn't  lose  to-day's  train,  I  see 
I  have  a  charming  comedy  part  for  you  —  come  in !  " 

She  went  in,  and  the  storm  broke,  for  as  I  felt  my  wa 
through  the  passage  leading  to  the  stage-stairs,  I  heard 
its  rolling  and  rumbling,  and  two  dimly-seen  men  in  front 
of  me  laughed,  while  one,  pointing  over  his  shoulder, 
toward  the  office,  sneered,  meaningly :  "  Ethel  stock  is 
going  down,  isn't  it  ?  " 

And  almost  I  wished  I  was  back  in  a  family  theatre. 


: 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOURTH 

I  Rehearse  Endlessly  —  I  Grow  Sick  with  Dread  —  I  Meet 
with  Success  in  Anne  Sylvester. 

UP-STAIRS  I  found  a  bare  stage,  as  is  often  the 
case  for  a  first  mere  reading  of  parts,  and  most 
of  the  company  sitting  on  camp-stools,  chatting 
and  laughing.     Already  M.   Benot  had  announced  the 
change  in  the  cast,  and  people  looked  at  me  in  perfect 
stupefaction :     "  Good  heavens !  what  a  risk  he  is  tak- 
ing !    Who  on  earth  is  she,  anyway  ?  "  and  I  cleared  my 
throat  in  mercy  to  the  speaker,  who  didn't  know  I  stood 
behind  her. 

That  morning  I  was  introduced  to  a  number  of  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  but  it  was  a  mere  baptism  of 
water,  not  of  the  spirit.  I  was  not  one  of  them.  Under- 
stand, no  one  was  openly  rude  to  me,  everyone  bowed  a 
"  good-morning,"  but,  well,  you  can  bow  a  good-morn- 
ing over  a  large  iron  fence  with  a  fast-locked  gate  in  it. 
That  my  dresses  of  gray  linen  or  of  white  linen  struck 
them  as  being  funny  in  September  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at,  yet  they  must  have  known  that  necessity  forced  me 
to  wear  them,  and  that  their  smiles  were  not  always 
effaced  quickly  enough  to  spare  me  a  cruel  pang.  And 
my  amazement  grew  day  by  day  at  their  own  extrava- 
gance of  dress.  Some  of  the  ladies  wore  a  different 
costume  each  day  during  the  entire  rehearsal  of  the  play. 
How,  I  wondered,  could  they  do  it?  Two  of  them,  Miss 
Kate  Claxton  and  Miss  Newton,  had  husbands  to  pay 
their  bills,  I  found,  and  Miss  Linda  Dietz  —  the  gentlest, 
most  sweetly-courteous  creature  imaginable  —  had  parents 

287 


288  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

and  a  home ;  but  the  magnificence  of  the  others  remained 
an  unsolvable  mystery. 

Another  thing  against  me  was,  I  could  not  act  even 
the  least  bit  at  rehearsal.  Foreign  actors  will  act  in  cold 
blood  at  a  daylight  rehearsal,  but  few  Americans  can  do 
it.  I  read  my  lines  with  intelligence,  but  gave  no  sign 
of  what  I  intended  to  do  at  night.  Of  course  that  made 
Mr.  Daly  suffer  great  anxiety,  but  he  said  nothing,  only 
looked  at  me  with  such  troubled,  anxious  eyes  that  I  felt 
sorry  for  him.  One  gentleman,  however,  decided  that  I 
was  —  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it  —  "a  lunk- 
head." He  treated  me  with  supercilious  condescension, 
varied  occasionally  with  overbearing  tyranny.  Just  one 
person  in  the  theatre  knew  that  I  was  really  a  good 
(  actress,  of  considerable  experience,  and  that  was  James 
Lewis ;  and  from  a  tricksy  spirit  of  mischief  he  kept  the 
silence  of  a  graven  image,  and  when  Mr.  Dan  Harkins 
took  me  aside  to  teach  me  to  act,  Lewis  would  retire  to 
a  quiet  spot  and  writhe  with  suppressed  laughter. 

One  day  he  said  to  me :  "  Say,  you  ain't  cooking  up 
a  huge  joke  on  these  gas-balloons,  are  you,  Clara?  And 
upon  my  soul  you  are  doing  it  well  —  you  act  as  green 
as  a  cucumber." 

And  never  did  I  succeed  in  convincing  him  that  I  had 
not  engineered  a  great  joke  on  the  company  by  deceptive 
rehearsing.  One  tiny  incident  seemed  to  give  Mr.  Daly 
a  touch  of  confidence  in  me.  In  the  "  Inn  scene  "  a  vio- 
lent storm  was  raging,  and  at  a  critical  moment  the  candle 
was  supposed  to  be  blown  out  by  a  gust  of  wind  from 
the  left  door,  as  one  of  the  characters  entered.  They 
were  using  a  mechanical  device  for  extinguishing  the 
candle,  and  it  was  tried  several  times  one  morning,  and 
always,  to  my  surprise,  from  the  right  side  of  the  stage. 
No  one  seemed  to  notice  anything  odd,  though  the  flame 
streamed  out  good  and  long  in  the  wrong  direction  before 
going  out.  At  last  I  ventured,  as  I  was  the  principal  in 
the  scene :  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen,  but  is  it  not 
the  wind  from  the  open  door  that  blows  that  light  out  ?  " 


CONTRARY   WINDS  289 

Then,  quick  and  sharp,  mine  enemy  was  upon  me: 
"  This  is  our  affair,  Miss  Morris." 

"  Yes/'  I  answered,  "  but  the  house  will  laugh  if  the 
candle  goes  out  against  the  storm,"  and  Mr.  Daly  sprang 
up,  and,  smiling  his  first  kindly  smile  at  me,  said :  "  What 
the  deuce  have  we  all  been  thinking  of  —  you're  right, 
the  candle  must  be  extinguished  from  the  left"  and  as 
I  glanced  across  the  stage  I  saw  Lewis  doing  some  neat 
little  dancing  steps  all  by  himself. 

The  rehearsals  were  exhausting  in  the  extreme,  the 
heat  was  unnatural,  the  walk  far  too  long,  and,  well,  to 
be  frank,  I  had  not  nearly  enough  to  eat.  My  anxiety 
was  growing  hourly,  my  strength  began  to  fail,  and  at 
the  last  rehearsals,  white  as  wax  from  weakness,  I  had 
to  be  carried  up  the  stairs  to  the  stage.  Having  such  a 
quick  study,  requiring  but  few  rehearsals,  I  was  from 
the  fourth  day  ready  at  any  moment  to  go  on  and  play 
my  part.  Fancy,  then,  what  a  waste  of  strength  there 
was  in  forcing  me,  day  after  day,  to  go  over  long,  im- 
portant scenes  —  three,  five,  even  seven  times  of  a  morn- 
ing —  for  the  benefit  of  one  amateur  actress,  who  simply 
could  not  remember  to-day  what  she  had  been  told  yes- 
terday. It  was  foolish,  it  was  risking  a  breakdown,  when 
they  had  no  one  to  put  in  my  place.  Mr.  William  Davidge 
was  the  next  greatest  sufferer,  and  as  an  experienced  old 
actor  he  hotly  resented  being  called  back  to  go  over  a 
scene,  again  and  again,  "  that  a  '  walking  vanity '  might 
be  taught  her  business  at  his  expense !  " 

And  though  I  liked  and  admired  the  "  walking  van- 
ity "  (who  did  not  in  the  least  deserve  the  name),  I  did 
think  the  manner  of  her  training  was  costly  and  unjust, 
and  one  morning,  just  before  the  production  of  the  play, 
I  —  luckily  as  it  would  seem  —  lost  my  self-control  for 
a  moment,  and  created  a  small  sensation.  In  my  indi- 
vidual case,  fainting  is  always  preceded  by  a  moment  of 
total  darkness,  and  that  again  by  a  sound  in  my  ears  as 
of  a  rushing  wind.  That  morning,  as  I  finished  the  sixth 
repetition  of  Anne's  big  scene  with  Lady  Glenarm,  the 


290  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

warning  whir  was  already  in  my  ears,  when  the  order 
came  to  go  over  it  again,  "  that  Mrs.  Glenarm  might  be 
quite  easy."  It  was  too  much  —  a  sudden  rage  seized 
upon  me :  "  Mrs.  Glenarm  will  only  be  quite  easy  when 
the  rest  of  us  are  dead !  "  I  remarked  as  I  took  my  place 
again,  and  when  I  received  my  cue  I  whirled  upon  her 
with  the  speech :  "  Take  care,  Mrs.  Glenarm,  I  am  not 
naturally  a  patient  woman,  trouble  has  done  much  to  tame 
my  temper,  but  endurance  has  its  limits ! " 

It  was  given  with  such  savage  passion  that  Miss  Dietz 
burst  into  frightened  tears  and  forgot  utterly  her  lines, 
while  a  silence  that  thrilled,  absolute,  dead,  came  upon  the 
company  for  a  moment.  Hastily  I  controlled  myself,  but 
there  were  whispers  and  amazed  looks  everywhere.  Mr. 
George  Brown,  who  played  the  pugilist,  said  aloud  to  a 
group :  "  She's  done  the  whole  crowd  —  she's  an  actress 
to  the  core !  " 

Mr.  Daly  sat  leaning  forward  at  the  prompt-table, 
white  as  he  could  well  be.  His  eyes  were  wide  and 
bright,  and,  to  my  surprise,  he  spoke  quite  gently  to  me  as 
he  said:  "Spare  yourself  —  just  murmur  your  lines, 
Miss  Morris."  And  Miss  Dietz  said :  "  Oh,  Mr.  Daly, 
I  am  so  glad  I  am  prepared ;  I  should  have  fallen  in  my 
tracks  if  she  had  done  that  to  me  at  night,  without 
warning." 

When  I  left  the  stage,  one  of  the  ladies  swept  her  dress 
aside,  and  said :  "  Sit  here  by  me ;  how  tired  you  must 
be !  "  It  was  the  first  friendly  advance  made  to  me.  Be- 
fore rehearsal  ended  I  overheard  the  young  man  with 
the  bald  head  saying :  "  She  has  sold  us  all,  and  I  bet 
she  will  completely  change  the  map  of  the  Fifth  Avenue 
Theatre." 

"  Oh,  no,  she  won't,"  answered  Lewis,  shortly,  "  she's 
not  that  type  of  woman !  " 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  on  the  strength  of  that  outburst, 
I  ain't  afraid  to  bet  twenty  good  dollars  that  she  makes 
pie  out  of  Ethel's  vogue !  "  Then,  seeing  me,  he  removed 
his  hat  hurriedly,  offering  his  shoulder  for  me  to  lean 


A  HUMAN  CHESS-MAN  291 

upon  as  I  descended  the  winding-stairs,  and  I  said  to 
myself :  "  Yesterday  this  would  have  been  a  kindly  ser- 
vice ;  to-day  —  to-day  it  is  not  far  from  an  humiliation." 

Hitherto  I  had  known  neither  clique  nor  cabal  in  a 
theatre ;  now  I  found  myself  in  a  network  of  them.  The 
favorite  —  who,  I  had  supposed,  lived  only  in  the  historic 
novel  —  I  now  met  in  real  life,  and  found  her  as  charming, 
as  treacherous,  and  as  troublesome  in  the  theatre  as  she 
could  ever  have  been  in  a  royal  court.  There  was  no 
one  to  explain  to  me  the  nature  or  progress  of  the  game 
that  was  being  played  when  I  came  upon  the  scene ;  but 
I  soon  discovered  there  were  two  factions  in  the  theatre, 
Miss  Agnes  Ethel  heading  one,  Miss  Fanny  Davenport 
the  other.  Each  had  a  following,  but  Miss  Ethel,  who 
had  been  all-powerful,  had  overestimated  her  strength 
when  she  refused,  point-blank,  to  play  Anne  Sylvester, 
giving  as  her  reason  "  the  immorality  of  Anne"  This 
from  the  lady  who  had  been  acting  all  season  in  "  Fer- 
nande  "  and  "  Frou-Frou  "  —  as  a  gambler's  decoy  and 
an  adulterous  wife  abandoning  child  and  home  —  satis- 
factorily proved  the  utter  absence  of  a  sense  of  humor 
from  her  charming  make-up. 

Mr.  Daly,  like  every  other  man,  could  be  managed  with 
a  little  patient  finesse,  but  he  would  not  be  bullied  in  busi- 
ness affairs  by  any  living  creature,  as  he  proved  when, 
rather  than  change  the  play  to  please  the  actress  he  then 
regarded  as  his  strongest  card,  he  trusted  a  great  part 
to  the  hands  of  an  unknown,  untried  girl,  and  gave  out 
to  the  newspapers  that  Miss  Ethel  had  sprained  her 
ankle,  and,  though  in  perfect  health,  could  not  walk  well 
enough  to  act.  And,  after  my  momentary  outburst,  the 
anti-Ethelites  suddenly  placed  me  on  one  of  the  sixty- 
four  squares  of  their  chess-board ;  but  I  knew  not  whether 
I  was  castle,  knight,  bishop,  or  pawn,  I  only  knew  that 
I  had  become  a  piece  of  value  in  their  game,  and  they 
hoped  to  move  me  against  Ethel. 

It  was  all  very  bewildering,  but  I  had  other  things  to 
think  about,  and  more  important.  My  money  had  run 


292  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

so  low  I  was  desperately  afraid  I  could  not  get  dresses 
for  the  play,  and  for  the  white  mousseline  necessary  for 
the  croquet-party  of  the  first  act  I  was  forced  to  go  to  a 
very  cheap  department  store,  a  fact  the  dress  nightly  pro- 
claimed aloud  from  every  inch  of  its  surface.  Shawl 
dresses  were  the  novelty  of  that  season,  and  at  Stewart's 
I  found  a  modestly  priced  dark-gray  shawl  overskirt  and 
jacket  that  I  could  wear  over  a  black  alpaca  skirt  for 
two  acts.  The  other  two  dresses  I  luckily  had  in  my  ward- 
robe, and  when  my  new  shoes,  a  long  gray  veil,  and  two 
pairs  of  gray  gloves  were  laid  into  the  dressing-room 
basket,  I  had  in  the  whole  world  $2.38,  on  which  we  had 
to  live  until  my  first  week's  salary  came  to  me.  But,  oh, 
that  last  awful  day  before  the  opening  *  night.  I  was 
suffering  bodily  as  well  as  mentally.  I  had  had  an  alarm- 
ing attack  of  pleurisy.  My  mother  had  rung  the  bell  and 
left  a  message  at  the  first  house  that  carried  a  doctor's 
sign.  He  came;  he  was  far  gone  in  liquor;  he  was 
obstinate,  almost  abusive  —  to  be  brief,  he  blistered  me 
shockingly ;  another  doctor  had  to  be  called  to  dress  and 
treat  the  hideous  blisters  the  first  had  produced ;  and  the 
tight  closing  of  dress-waists  about  me  was  an  agony  not 
yet  forgotten.  But  what  was  that  to  the  nervous  terror, 
the  icy  chill,  the  burning  fever,  the  deadly  nausea!  I 
could  not  swallow  food  —  I  could  not !  My  mother  stood 
over  me  while,  with  tear-filled  eyes,  I  disposed  of  a  raw, 
beaten  egg,  and  then  she  was  guilty  of  the  dreadful  ex- 
travagance of  buying  two  chops,  of  which  she  made  a 
cup  of  broth,  and  fearing  a  breakdown  if  I  attempted 
without  food  five  such  acts  as  awaited  me,  she  almost 
forced  me  to  swallow  it  to  the  last  drop  after  my  hat 
was  on  and  I  was  ready  to  start.  I  always  kiss  my  mother 
good-by,  and  that  night  my  lips  were  so  cold  and  stiff 
with  fright  that  they  would  not  move.  I  dropped  my 
head  for  a  moment  upon  her  shoulder,  she  patted  me 
silently  with  one  hand  and  opened  the  door  with  the 
other.  My  little  dog,  escaping  from  the  room,  rushed 
to  me,  leaping  against  my  knees.  I  caught  her  up,  and 


GETTING   ON  293 

she  covered  my  troubled,  veiled  face  with  frantic  kisses. 
I  passed  her  to  mother  and  crept  painfully  down  the 
steps.  I  glanced  back  —  mother  waved  her  hand  and  in- 
nocently called :  "  Good  luck !  God  bless  you !  " 

The  astonishing  conjunction  of  superstition  and  ortho- 
dox faith  touched  my  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  I  laughed 
aloud,  Bertie  barked  excitedly,  I  faced  about  and  went 
forward  almost  gayly  to  meet  —  what?  As  I  reached 
Broadway,  I  remember  quite  distinctly  that  I  said  aloud, 
to  myself :  "  Well,  God's  good  to  the  Irish,  and  at  all 
events  I  was  born  on  St.  Patrick's  day  —  so  Garryowen 
forever!" 

The  pendulum  was  swinging  to  the  other  extreme,  I 
was  in  high  spirits ;  nor  need  you  be  surprised,  for  such 
is  the  acting  temperament. 

I  had  not  on  that  first  night  even  the  comfort  of  a 
dressing-room  to  myself,  but  shared  one  of  the  tiniest 
closets  with  Mrs.  Roberta  Norwood,  in  whose  chic 
blonde  person  I  failed  utterly  to  see  a  future  friend. 
The  terrible  heat,  the  crowding,  the  strange  companion, 
all  brought  back  the  memory  of  that  far-away  first  night 
of  all  in  Cleveland ;  but  now  there  was  no  Mrs.  Brad- 
shaw  to  go  to  for  advice  or  commendation.  The  sense 
of  utter  loneliness  came  upon  me  suddenly,  and  I  bent 
my  head  low  over  the  buckling  of  my  shoe  that  my  rising 
tears  might  not  be  noticed. 

We  were  directly  beneath  the  auditorium  parquet, 
and  every  seat  flung  down  by  the  ushers  seemed  to  strike 
a  blow  upon  our  heads,  while  applause  shook  dust  into 
our  eyes  and  hair.  Forced  occupation  is  the  best  cure 
for  nervousness,  and  in  the  hurried  making-up  and  dress- 
ing I  for  the  time  forgot  my  fright.  Two  or  three  per- 
sons had  come  to  the  door  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Norwood,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  they  were  all  made  up  unusually  pale. 
I  looked  at  myself  in  the  glass,  I  hesitated,  at  last  I  turned 
and  asked  if  I  wore  too  much  color  —  if  I  was  too  red, 
and  the  answer  I  received  was :  "  That's  a  matter  of 


294  LIFE  ON   THE   STAGE 

Now  it  was  not  a  matter  of  taste,  but  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness. She  was  familiar  with  the  size  and  the  lighting 
of  the  theatre,  and  I  was  not,  yet  either  from  extreme 
self-occupation  or  utter  indifference  she  allowed  me  to 
go  upon  that  tiny  stage  painted  like  an  Indian  about  to 
take  the  war-path.  Truly  I  was  climbing  up  a  thorny 
stem  to  reach  the  flower  of  success. 

The  overture  was  at  its  closing  bars,  all  were  rushing 
to  the  stairs  for  the  first  act.  I  stopped  behind  the  dress- 
ing-room door  and  bent  my  head  for  one  dumbly  pleading 
moment,  then  muttering  "  Amen  —  amen,"  I,  too,  hurried 
up  the  stairs  to  face  the  awful  first  appearance  before  a 
New  York  audience. 

I  had  always  been  rehearsed  to  enter  with  the  crowd 
of  guests.  The  cue  came,  and  as  I  stepped  forward,  a 
strong  hand  caught  my  arm.  Mr.  Daly  had  suddenly 
changed  his  mind,  he  held  me  fast  till  all  were  on,  then 
let  me  go,  whispering,  "  Now  —  now,"  and  I  went  on 
alone. 

I  had  to  retire  to  the  back  of  the  stage  and  wait  a  few 
moments  till  spoken  to.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  sort  of 
horror  the  closeness  of  the  audience  caused  me,  I  felt  I 
should  step  upon  the  upturned  faces;  I  wanted  to  put 
out  my  hands  and  push  the  people  back,  and  their  use 
of  opera-glasses  filled  my  eyes  with  angry  tears.  Sud- 
denly I  understood  the  meaning  of  the  lightly  painted 
faces.  I  raised  my  handkerchief  and  wiped  some  of  the 
red  from  my  cheeks,  while  somewhat  bitterly,  I  am  afraid, 
I  thought  that  "  love  ye  one  another  "  and  "  thy  neighbor 
as  thyself  "  had  been  relegated  to  the  garret  with  "  God 
bless  our  home." 

Then  the  astonishing  beauty  of  the  women  on  the 
stage  struck  me  with  dismay;  their  exquisite  lacy 
dresses,  their  jewel-loaded  fingers.  Oh !  I  thought,  how 
can  I  ever  hope  to  stand  with  them.  I  grew  sick  and 
cold.  Then  there  dully  reached  my  ears  the  words  of 
Lady  Lundy:  "I  choose  —  Anne  Sylvester."  It  was 
my  cue.  I  came  slowly  down ;  no  one  knew  me,  no  one 


I   PLAY   "ANNE"  295 

greeted  me.  I  opened  my  lips,  but  no  sound  came.  I 
saw  a  frightened  look  on  Miss  Newton's  face;  I  tried 
again,  and  in  a  husky  whisper,  answered :  "  Thank  you ; 
I'd  rather  not  play."" 

Out  in  front  one  actor  friend,  John  W.  Norton,  watched 
and  prayed  for  a  success  for  me;  when  he  heard  the 
hoarse  murmur,  he  dropped  his  head  and  groaned :  "  A 
failure  —  total  and  complete !  "  But  I  also  had  noted 
that  hoarse  croak,  and  it  had  acted  like  a  mighty  spur. 
I  was  made  desperate  by  it.  I  threw  up  my  head,  and 
answered  my  next  cue  with :  "  No,  Lady  Lundy,  nothing 
is  the  matter ;  I  am  not  very  well,  but  I  will  play  if  you 
wish  it." 

I  gave  the  words  so  bell-clear  and  with  so  much  inso- 
lent humility  that  a  round  of  applause  of  lightning  quick- 
ness followed  them.  It  was  the  first  bit  of  genuine  hearty 
kindness  I  had  received  in  the  city  of  New  York.  In  my 
pleasure  I  forgot  the  character  of  Anne  completely,  and 
turned  to  the  audience  a  face  every  feature  of  which, 
from  wide,  surprised  eyes  to  more  widely-smiling  lips, 
radiated  such  satisfaction  and  good-fellowship  that  they 
first  laughed  aloud  and  then  a  second  time  applauded. 

At  last!  I  was  starting  fair,  we  had  shaken  hands, 
my  audience  and  I;  my  nerves  were  steady,  my  heart 
strong,  the  "  part "  good.  I  would  try  hard,  I  would  do 
my  best.  I  made  my  whispered  appointment  to  meet 
Geoffrey,  and  when  I  returned  and  stood  a  moment, 
silently  watching  him,  there  came  upon  the  house  the 
silence  that  my  soul  loves  —  the  silence  that  might  thrill 
a  graven  image  into  acting,  and  I  was  not  stone. 

Our  scene  began.  Anne,  striving  desperately  to  restrain 
her  feelings,  said :  "  You  are  rich,  a  scholar,  and  a  gen- 
tleman; are  you  something  else  besides  all  these  —  are 
you  a  coward  and  a  villainy  sir?  " 

Clear  and  distinct  from  the  right  box,  in  suppressed 
tones,  came  the  words :  "  Larmes  de  la  voix !  larmes  de 
la  voix ! "  Many  glanced  at  the  box,  a  few  hissed  im- 
patiently at  the  new  mayor,  Oakey  Hall,  who  had  spoken. 


296  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

Our  interview  was  interrupted  by  Lady  Lundy  (Miss 
Newton)  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundy  (Mr.  Lewis).  I  was 
dismissed  by  the  first  and  left  the  stage.  Applause  broke 
forth  —  continued.  Mr.  Lewis  and  Miss  Newton  began 
to  speak  —  the  applause  redoubled.  I  turned  angrily. 
"  What  bad  manners ! "  I  said.  Mr.  Daly  ran  up  to  me, 
waving  his  hands :  "  Go  on !  go  on !  It's  you,  you  fool !  " 

"  I  know  it,"  I  replied,  "  but  I'm  not  going  to  insult 
any  actor  by  taking  a  call  in  the  middle  of  his  scene." 

"  Confound  you !  "  he  said,  "  will  you  do  as  I  tell  you  ?  " 
He  caught  me,  whirled  me  about  and,  putting  his  hand 
between  my  shoulders,  literally  pitched  me  on  to  the 
stage,  where  I  stood  ashamed  and  mortified  by  what  I 
honestly  felt  to  be  a  slight  to  those  two  waiting  to  proceed. 

After  that  the  evening's  triumph,  like  the  rolling  snow- 
ball, grew  as  it  advanced.  At  the  end  of  the  quarrel 
act  with  Mrs.  Glenarm  the  curtain  was  raised  on  the 
stage  picture  —  once,  twice,  three  times.  Then  M.  Benot 
said  to  Mr.  Daly :  "  They  want  her,"  and  Mr.  Daly  an- 
swered, sharply :  "  I  know  what  they  want,  and  I  know 
what  I  don't  want  —  ring  up  again !  " 

He  did  so;  no  use,  the  applause  went  on.  Then  Mr. 
Daly  said  to  me :  "  Take  Mrs.  Glenarm  on  with  you, 
and  acknowledge  this  call." 

We  went  on  together ;  retired ;  more  applause.  Again 
we  went  on  together;  no  use,  the  applause  would  not 
stop.  "  Oh,  well,  ring  up  once  more,"  said  Mr.  Daly, 
"  and  here,  you,  take  it  yourself." 

I  went  on  alone,  and  the  audience  rose  as  one  individual. 
I  saw  them,  all  blurred  through  happy  tears.  I  held  my 
hands  out  to  them,  with  a  very  passion  of  love.  The 
house  blossomed  with  white  waving  handkerchiefs  in 
answer.  The  curtain  fell  and,  before  I  moved,  rose  once 
more,  and  then,  as  I  live  by  bread!  I  saw  pass  between 
me  and  those  applauding  people  a  little  crying  child 
carrying  a  single  potato  in  her  hand.  Of  course  that 
was  nerves ;  but  I  saw  her,  I  tell  you  I  saw  her !  and 
surely  I  should  know  myself! 


MY   FIRST   NEW   YORK   TRIUMPH     297 

In  the  fourth  act,  which  was  a  triumph  for  all  con- 
cerned in  it  —  and  that  meant  nearly  everyone  in  the  cast 
- 1  received  a  compliment  that  I  prize  still.  There  is  a 
certain  tone  which  should  be  reserved  for  short  important 
speeches  only  in  strong  and  exciting  scenes,  where,  by 
force  of  contrast,  it  has  a  great  effect ;  so,  in  tones  low, 
level,  clear  and  cold  as  ice,  Anne  had  scarcely  taken  her 
solemn  oath :  "  I  swear  it,  on  my  honor  as  a  Christian 
woman,  sir !  "  when  from  end  to  end  of  their  railed-in 
semicircle  the  musicians  broke  into  swift  applause. 
Catching  the  effect,  their  foreign  impetuosity  made  them 
respond  more  quickly  than  could  the  Americans  who 
seconded  their  action,  while  mere  recognition  from  these 
play- worn,  blase  men  was  to  me  veritable  incense.  In 
the  last  act,  Mrs.  Gilbert,  as  Hester  Detheridge,  the  sup- 
posed dumb  woman,  proved  herself  an  artist  to  the  finger- 
tips. Later  I  saw  many  Hesters,  but  never  one  to  equal 
hers. 

At  last,  and  late,  far  too  late,  the  play  ended  in  a  blaze 
of  glory.  The  curtain  was  raised  for  final  compliments. 
All  the  actors  in  the  play  had  been  summoned  —  we  all 
stood  in  line,  a  bowing,  smiling,  happy  line  —  facing  a 
shouting,  hat,  handkerchief,  or  cane-waving  crowd  of 
pleased,  excited  people.  As  I  saw  how  many  eyes  were 
turned  my  way,  with  a  leap  of  the  heart  I  repeated :  "  If 
you  make  a  favorable  impression  I  will  —  yes,  I  will 
double  that  salary." 

Surely,  I  thought,  no  one  can  doubt  that  I  have  made 
a  favorable  impression,  and,  oh,  mother,  we  will  be  so 
happy !  Just  then  I  caught  the  eye  of  a  young  girl  —  I 
could  have  touched  her  outstretched  hand,  she  was  so 
close  —  she  gave  me  a  lovely  smile,  and  taking  from  her 
bosom  a  bunch  of  scarlet  carnations  she  threw  them  her- 
self. They  fell  on  the  stage.  One  of  the  actors  picked 
them  up  and,  turning,  handed  them  to  Blanche.  I  heard 
the  disappointed  "  Oh !  "  and  caught  her  eye  again,  when, 
regardless  of  all  the  rules  and  regulations  forbidding 
communication  with  the  audience,  I  smiled  and  kissed 


298  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

my  hand  to  her.  As  the  curtain  fell,  in  an  instant  every- 
one was  talking  with  everyone  else.  I  had  begun  alone 
—  well,  I  must  end  alone.  I  slipped  down  the  staircase 
least  used,  and  at  its  foot  met  Mr.  George  Brown,  who 
was  waiting  for  me.  He  took  my  hands  in  his  and  gave 
me  both  commendation  and  congratulation,  though  they 
were  stayed  and  braced  with  unconscious  profanity ;  and 
I  squeezed  his  hands  hard  and  said :  "  You  are  so  good, 
oh!  you  are  so  good!  but  please  take  care,  I'm  afraid 
you'll  get  forfeited."  When  he  cried :  "  D — n  the  for- 
feit, it's  worth  a  few  dollars  to  speak  as  you  feel  some- 
times, so  good-night !  " 

I  scrambled  into  my  street-clothes,  caught  up  the  in- 
evitable bag,  and  fairly  rushed  from  the  theatre,  and  as 
I  came  up  from  that  place  of  mouldy  smell  and  burnt-out 
air,  and  lifted  my  face  to  the  stupendous  beauty  of  the 
heavens,  sniffing  delightedly  at  the  cool,  pure  night  air, 
suddenly  I  thought  how  delicious  must  have  been  the 
first  long  breath  young  Lazarus  drew  when,  obeying  the 
Divine  command,  he  "  came  forth  "  from  the  tomb. 

Tired,  excited,  I  hurried  to  carry  the  news  to  the  two 
who  awaited  me  —  my  mother  and  my  dog.  At  the  cor- 
ner of  Twenty-third  Street  and  Broadway  I  had  to  pass 
around  a  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  stood  talk- 
ing there,  and  a  lady  said  as  I  passed :  "  No,  no !  it's 
Morris,  I  tell  you ;  see,  here  it  is  —  Clara  Morris."  She 
held  up  a  folded  programme,  pointing  out  the  name  to 
a  gentleman  beside  her.  I  laughed  happily.  Odd  bits 
of  the  evening's  happenings  kept  appearing  before  me 
like  pictures.  Sometimes  I  saw  the  unknown  young 
girl's  smiling  face  —  and  the  scarlet  flowers  I  failed  to 
receive.  Sometimes  'twas  Mr.  Daly's  angry  one  as  he 
pitched  me  on  to  the  stage  to  acknowledge  a  compliment 
I  did  not  want,  great  as  it  was.  Most  often  I  saw  the 
faces  of  the  lovely  women  of  the  company.  What  a 
galaxy  of  beauty  they  made!  The  stately  Newton,  the 
already  full-blown,  buxom  Davenport,  the  tall,  slender, 
deer-eyed  Dietz,  the  oriental  Volmer,  the  auburn-haired 


A   SUCCESS  299 

Claxton,  the  blond  Norwood!  There  were  just  two 
women  in  that  company  who  were  not  beauties  —  Mrs. 
Gilbert  and  Miss  Morris;  even  they  were  wholesome, 
pleasant  women,  who  did  not  frighten  horses  by  any 
means,  but  still  if  you  speak  of  beauty  —  why,  next ! 
please ! 

At  last  I  saw  the  lighted  windows  that  told  me  home 
was  near.  Then  up  the  stairs,  where  there  bounded 
upon  my  breast  the  little  black-and-tan  bundle  of  love 
and  devotion,  called  Bertie  the  loyal,  whose  fervid  greet- 
ings made  the  removal  of  my  hat  so  difficult  a  job  that 
it  was  through  the  tangle  of  hat,  veil,  and  wriggling  dog 
I  cried  at  last :  "  It's  all  right,  Mumsey  —  a  success ! 
Lots  and  lots  of  '  calls/  dear !  and,  oh !  is  there  any- 
thing to  eat  —  /  am  so  hungry ! " 

So,  while  the  new  actress's  name  was  floating  over 
many  a  dainty  restaurant  supper,  its  owner  sat  beneath 
one  gas-jet,  between  mother  and  pet,  eating  a  large  piece 
of  bread  and  a  small  piece  of  cheese;  and,  thankful  for 
both,  she  talked  to  her  small  circle  of  admirers,  telling 
them  all  about  it,  and  winding  up  supper  and  talk  with 
the  declaration :  "  Mother,  I  believe  the  hearts  are  just 
the  same,  whether  they  beat  against  Western  ribs  or 
Eastern  ribs !  " 

Then,  supper  over,  I  stumbled  through  my  old-time 
"  Now  I  lay  me,"  and  adding  some  blurred  words  of 
gratitude  (God  must  be  so  well  used  to  sleep  thanks, 
but  very  wide-awake  entreaties!)  I  fell  asleep,  knowing 
that  through  God's  mercy  and  my  own  hard  work  I  was 
the  first  Western  actress  who  had  ever  been  accepted 
by  a  New  York  audience,  and  as  I  drowsed  off,  I  mur- 
mured to  myself :  "  And  I'll  leave^  the  door  open,  now 
that  I  have  opened  it  —  I'll  leave  it  open  for  all  others  " 


CHAPTER   THIRTY-FIFTH 

I  Am  Accepted  by  the  Company  —  I   am  Warned  against 
Mr.  Fisk  —  I  Have  an  Odd  Encounter  with  Mr.  Gould. 

THE   following   morning  we   were  called   to  the 
theatre  at   eleven   o'clock   to   have  the  play   cut 
"  judiciously,"  as  old  actors  used  to  say.     It  was 
very  loosely  constructed,  and,  besides  cutting,  the  entire 
drama  required  a  tightening-up,  as  it  were. 

Mr.  Daly  was  the  first  to  greet  me  and  offer  hearty 
and  genial  congratulations.  Everyone  followed  his  ex- 
ample, and  that  morning  I  was  admitted  into  the  family 
circle  and  came  into  my  just  inheritance  of  equality  and 
fraternity. 

A  little  surprised,  but  very  happy,  I  gave  back  smile 
for  smile,  hand-pressure  for  hand-pressure;  for  being 
held  off  at  arm's  length  by  them  all  had  hurt  worse  I'm 
sure  than  they  knew,  therefore  when  they  offered  me 
kindly  greeting  I  did  not  stop  to  study  out  the  cause  of 
this  effect,  but  shut  my  eyes  and  opened  my  mouth,  and 
took  what  luck  had  sent  me,  and  thankfully  became  so 
much  one  of  theni  that  I  never  had  a  clashing  word  with 
a  member  of  the  company  —  never  saw  the  faintest  cloud 
darken  our  good-fellowship. 

That  morning,  as  the  cutting  was  going  on,  I  advanced 
and  offered  my  part,  but  Mr.  Daly  waved  me  away. 
"  No,"  he  said,  "  there's  plenty  of  useless  matter  to  take 
out,  but  the  public  won't  want  Anne  cut,  they  have  none 
too  much  of  her  now." 

He  gave  but  few  compliments,  even  to  those  he  liked, 
and  he  did  not  like  me  yet,  therefore  that  gracious  speech 
created  a  sensation  among  the  other  hearers  and  was 
carefully  treasured  up  by  me. 

300 


MR.  DALY'S  FRIENDSHIP         301 

Another  of  his  sayings  of  that  morning  I  recall.  In 
conversation  with  one  of  the  ladies,  I  remarked:  "As 
a  Western  woman,  I  suppose  I  have  various  expressions 
to  unlearn  ? "  when  Mr.  Daly  turned  quickly  from  the 
prompt-table,  saying,  sharply :  "  Miss  Morris,  don't  say 
that  again.  You  are  a  New  York  woman  now  —  please 
remember  that.  You  ceased  to  be  a  Westerner  last  night 
when  you  received  the  New  York  stamp." 

I  thought  him  jesting,  and  was  about  to  make  some 
flippant  reply,  when  one  of  the  ladies  squeezed  my  arm 
and  said :  "  Don't,  he  will  be  angry ;  he  is  in  earnest." 

And  he  was,  just  as  he  was  in  earnest  later  on  when 
we  had  become  good  friends,  and  I  heard  him  for  the 
first  time  swear  like  a  trooper  because  I  had  been  born 
in  Canada.  And  when  I  laughed  at  his  anger,  he  was 
not  far  from  boxing  my  ears. 

"  It's  a  damn  shame !  "  he  declared ;  "  in  the  first  place 
you  are  an  American  to  the  very  marrow  of  your  bones. 
In  the  next  place  you  are  the  only  woman  I  know  who 
has  a  living,  pulsing  love  of  country  and  flag!  Oh,  the 
devil!  I  won't  believe  it  —  you  born  in  a  tu'penny  ha'- 
penny little  Canadian  town  under  that  infernal  British 
flag!  See  here,  if  you  ever  tell  anyone  that  —  I'll  — 
I'll  never  forgive  you!  Have  you  been  telling  that  to 
people  ?  " 

I  answered  him :  "  I  have  not  —  but  I  have  permitted 
the  assertion  that  I  was  born  in  Cleveland  to  go  uncor- 
rected,"  and,  with  the  sweet  frankness  of  friendship,  he 
answered  that  I  had  more  sense  than  he  had  given  me 
credit  for.  But,  small  matter  that  it  was,  it  annoyed  him 
greatly,  and  I  still  have  notes  of  his,  sent  on  my  birth- 
days, in  which  he  petulantly  refers  to  my  unfortunate 
birth-place,  and  warns  me  to  keep  silent  about  it. 

Like  many  other  great  men  —  and  Mr.  Daly  was  a 
great  man  —  he  often  made  mountains  out  of  mole-hills, 
devoting  to  some  trifle  an  amount  of  consideration  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  thing  considered. 

On  the  first  night  of  the  season  Mr.  Daly  had  said  to 


302  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

me :  "  One  word,  Miss  Morris,  that  I  had  forgotten  be- 
fore —  Mr.  James  Fisk,  unfortunately,  as  landlord,  has 
the  right  of  entrance  into  the  green-room.  He  doesn't 
often  appear  there,  but  should  he  come  in,  if  you  are 
present  I  desire  you  should  instantly  withdraw.  I  do 
not  wish  you  to  be  introduced  to  him  under  any  circum- 
stances." 

I  felt  my  face  flushing  red  as  I  answered :  "  I  have 
no  desire  to  meet  either  Mr.  Fisk  or  any  other  gentleman 
in  the  green-room ! "  But  Mr.  Daly  said,  hurriedly : 
"  Don't  misunderstand  me,  there's  no  time  for  explana- 
tions now,  only  do  as  I  ask  you.  You  will  recognize  him 
when  I  tell  you  he  is  very  blond  and  very  like  his  pict- 
ures," and  away  flew  Mr.  Daly  to  attend  to  things  enough 
to  drive  most  men  crazy. 

Now,  that  speech  did  not  mean  that  Mr.  Fisk  was  a 
monster  of  ill-breeding  or  of  immorality,  but  it  did  mean 
that  that  was  Mr.  Daly's  "  tat "  to  Mr.  Fisk's  "  tit "  in 
a  very  pretty  little  "  tit-for-tat "  quarrel  between  them. 

Mr.  Daly  very  seldom  tasted  defeat  —  very,  very  sel- 
dom came  out  second  best  in  an  encounter ;  but  there  had 
been  a  struggle  anent  the  renting  of  the  theatre:  Mr. 
Fisk,  as  landlord,  refusing  to  renounce  his  right  of  en- 
trance by  the  stage-door  to  any  theatre  he  owned  — 
nothing  could  move  him,  no  argument,  no  entreaty,  no 
threat;  not  even  an  offer  of  more  rent  than  he  himself 
asked.  To  Mr.  Daly  the  right  of  entrance  of  an  outsider 
back  of  the  stage  was  almost  unbearable,  even  though  the 
privilege  was  seldom  used  and  never  abused.  He  de- 
clared he  would  not  sign  any  agreement  holding  such  a 
clause.  He  gave  up  the  theatre  rather  than  yield,  and 
then,  with  a  large  company  already  engaged,  he  sought 
in  vain  for  a  house  to  shelter  it.  Now,  the  city  is  broken 
out  all  over,  close  and  fine,  with  theatres,  like  a  case  of 
well-developed  measles;  but  then  'twas  different.  Mr. 
Daly  could  find  no  other  theatre,  and  he  was  compelled 
to  accept  the  Fifth  Avenue  with  the  hated  clause  com- 
promised thus:  Mr.  Fisk  was  to  have  the  right  of  en- 


JIMMY   FISK  303 

trance  to  the  green-room,  but  was  never  to  go  upon  the 
stage  or  behind  the  scenes;  an  ending  to  the  struggle 
that  pleased  the  company  mightily,  for  they  were  all  very 
fond  of  Jimmy  Fisk,  or  "  The  Prince,"  as  he  was  called. 

He  never  forgot  them  on  benefit  nights;  whether  the 
beneficiary  was  man  or  woman  there  was  always  a  gift 
ready  from  the  "  Railroad  Prince." 

He  looked  like  a  man  well  acquainted  with  his  tub. 
His  yellow  hair  crisped  itself  into  small  waves  right  from 
its  very  roots.  His  blue  eyes  danced  with  fun,  for  he 
was  one  of  nature's  comedians.  His  manner  was  what 
he  himself  would  describe  as  "  chipper."  No  one  could 
talk  five  minutes  with  him  without  being  moved  to 
laughter. 

His  own  box  was  the  right  upper  one,  and  as  I  first 
had  him  pointed  out  to  me,  yellow-haired,  laughing,  flash- 
ing now  and  then  a  splendid  ring,  I  wondered  if  he  really 
was  the  stalking-horse  of  the  dark  little  man  with  the 
piercing  eyes  who  sat  for  one  act  well  back  of  the  re- 
dundant and  diffuse  Mr.  James  Fisk.  Wishing  to  make 
sure  of  the  dark  man's  identity,  I  asked  who  he  was. 
"  Oh,"  was  the  answer,  "  he's  gone  now,  but  I  suppose 
it  was  Gould,  rooting  out  the  '  Prince '  to  talk  shop  to 
him ! "  then,  thrusting  out  a  contemptuous  under-lip, 
my  informant  added :  "  He's  no  good  —  he  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  theatre !  Scarcely  ever  comes  to  a  perform- 
ance, and  doesn't  see  anything  when  he  does.  He 
couldn't  tell  any  one  of  us  apart  from  the  others  if  he 
tried  —  and  he's  not  likely  to  try.  You  want  to  keep  your 
eye  on  Jimmie.  If  he  likes  you,  you're  in  for  flowers  and 
a  present,  too,  on  your  benefit !  " 

Imagine,  then,  my  amazement  on  the  third  night  of  the 
season  when  this  occurred:  In  one  act  I  made  my  exit 
before  the  curtain  fell  —  all  the  other  characters  being 
still  upon  the  stage.  Having  a  change  of  dress  there,  I 
always  hurried  down-stairs  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
passing  in  one  door  and  out  of  the  other,  crossed  the 
green-room  to  reach  my  dressing-room.  That  evening 


304  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

as  I  ran  in  I  saw  a  gentleman  standing  near  the  opposite 
door.  I  turned  instantly  to  retreat,  when  a  voice  called : 
"  If  you  please."  I  paused,  I  turned.  The  gentleman 
removed  his  hat,  and  coming  to  the  centre  of  the  room 
held  out  his  hand,  saying :  "  Miss  Morris  —  you  are 
Miss  Morris  ?  " 

I  smiled  assent  and  gave  him  my  hand.  His  small, 
smooth  fingers  closed  upon  mine  firmly.  We  stood  and 
looked  at  each  other.  He  was  small,  and  dark  of  hair 
and  of  beard,  and  his  piercing  eyes  seemed  to  be  reading 
me  through  and  through.  He  spoke  presently,  in  a  voice 
low  and  gentle  —  almost  to  sadness. 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said ;  "  I'm  not  going 
to  waste  time  telling  you  you  are  a  wonderful  actress, 
because  the  papers  have  already  done  that,  and  all  New 
York  will  do  it,  but  I  see  you  are  an  honest  girl  and 
alone  here " 

"  No  —  oh,  no !  "  I  broke  in,  "  my  mother,  too,  is 
here!" 

A  faint  smile  seemed  to  creep  about  his  bearded  lips, 
there  was  a  distinct  touch  of  amusement  in  his  voice  as 
he  said :  "  I-n-d-e-e-d !  a  valiant  pair,  no  doubt  —  a  truly 
valiant  pair!  but,"  his  small  fingers  closed  with  surpris- 
ing strength  about  mine  in  emphasis  of  his  words,  "  but, 
oh,  my  honest  little  woman,  you  are  going  to  see  trouble 
here ! "  He  glanced  down  at  the  hateful  cheap  dress  I 
wore,  he  touched  it  with  the  brim  of  his  hat :  "  Yes,  you 
will  have  sore  trouble  on  this  score,  to  say  nothing  of 
other  things;  but  don't  let  them  beat  you!  When  your 
back  is  to  the  wall,  don't  give  up !  but  at  a  last  pinch  turn 
to  me,  Clara  Morris,  and  if  I  don't  know  how  to  help  you 
out,  I  know  somebody  who  will!  She 

Steps,  running  steps,  were  coming  down  the  passage- 
way, then  tall,  dead-white  with  anger,  Mr.  Daly  stood 
in  the  doorway.  He  almost  gasped  the  words :  "  What 
does  this  mean,  sir?"  then  angrily  to  me:  "Leave  the 
room  at  once !  " 

Flushing  at  the  tone,  I  bent  my  head  and  moved  toward 


MR.  GOULD  OFFERS  HELP        305 

the  door,  when,  calm  and  clear,  came  the  words :  "  Good- 
night, Miss  Morris,  please  remember !  " 

Mr.  Daly  seemed  beside  himself  with  anger.  "  Mr. 
Gould,"  he  cried  (my  heart  gave  a  jump  at  the  name;  to 
save  my  life  I  could  not  help  glancing  back  at  them), 
"  how  dare  you  pass  the  stage-door  ?  You  have  no  more 
right  here  than  has  any  other  stranger!  Your  conduct, 
sir " 

The  gray,  blazing  eyes  of  the  speaker  were  met  by  Mr. 
Gould's,  calm,  cold,  hard  as  steel,  and  his  voice,  low  and 
level,  was  saying :  "  We  will  not  discuss  my  conduct 
here,  if  you  please  —  your  office  perhaps,"  as  I  fled  down 
the  entry  to  my  own  room. 

Mr.  Daly  sent  for  me  at  the  end  of  the  play  to  demand 
my  story  of  the  unexpected  meeting.  Had  I  received  any 
note,  any  message  beforehand?  Had  we  any  common 
acquaintance?  What  had  he  said  to  me  —  word  for 
word,  what  had  he  said? 

I  thought  of  the  gentle  voice,  the  piercing  eyes  that 
had  grown  so  kind,  the  friendly  promise,  and  somehow 
I  felt  it  would  be  scoffed  at  —  I  rebelled.  I  would  only 
generalize.  He  had  called  me  an  honest  girl,  had  said 
the  city  praised  me;  but  when  I  got  home  I  told  my 
mother  all,  who  was  greatly  surprised,  since  she  had  had 
only  the  newspaper  Gould  in  her  mind  —  a  sort  of  hu- 
man spider,  who  wove  webs  —  strong  webs  —  that  caught 
and  held  his  fellow-men. 

His  words  came  true.  I  saw  trouble  of  many  kinds 
and  colors.  More  than  once  I  thought  of  his  promise, 
but  I  had  learned  much  ill  of  human  nature  in  a  limited 
time,  and  I  was  afraid  of  everyone.  Knowing  much  of 
poor  human  nature  now,  and  looking  back  to  that  even- 
ing, recalling  every  tone,  every  shade  of  expression,  I 
am  forced  to  believe  Mr.  Jay  Gould  was  perfectly  honest 
and  sincere  in  his  offer  of  assistance. 

If  this  incident  seems  utterly  incredible  at  first,  it  is 
because  you  are  thinking  of  Mr.  Gould  wholly  in  his 
character  of  "  The  Wizard  of  Wall  Street ;  "  but  turn  to 


306 


LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 


the  domestic  side  of  the  man,  think  of  his  undying  love 
for,  his  unbroken  loyalty  and  devotion  to,  the  wife  of  his 
choice,  who,  as  mother  of  his  little  flock,  never  ceased 
to  be  his  sweetheart. 

Is  it  so  improbable,  then,  that  his  heart,  made  tender 
by  love  for  one  dear  woman,  sheltered  and  protected, 
might  feel  a  throb  of  pity  for  another  woman,  unshel- 
tered and  alone,  whose  poverty  he  saw  would  be  a  cruel 
stumbling-block  in  her  narrow  path?  I  think  not. 

Who  that  "  she  "  was  whose  aid  he  would  have  asked 
in  my  behalf  I  do  not  know,  can  never  know;  but  it 
always  gives  me  an  almost  childish  pleasure  to  imagine 
it  was  the  sweet,  strong  woman  who  was  his  wife.  At 
all  events,  Mr.  Gould  that  night  furnished  me  with  a 
pleasant  memory,  and  that  is  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for. 

The  first  time  I  saw  Mr.  Fisk  in  the  green-room  he 
was  surrounded  by  a  smiling,  animated  party,  and  as  he 
advanced  a  step,  expectantly,  I  disappeared.  I  have  been 
told  that  he  laughed  at  his  own  disappointment  and  the 
suddenness  of  some  claim  upon  my  attention.  The  sec- 
ond time,  I  was  in  the  room  when  he  entered,  and  at  my 
swift  departure  he  reddened  visibly,  and,  after  a  moment, 
said :  "  If  you  were  not  all  such  good  friends  of  mine, 
I  should  think  someone  had  been  making  a  bugaboo  of 
me  to  scare  that  young  woman." 

"  9h,"  laughed  one  of  the  men,  "  she's  from  the  West 
and  is  a  bit  wild  yet." 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "it  doesn't  matter  where  she's 
from,  New  York's  got  her  now  and  means  to  keep  her. 
I'd  like  to  offer  her  a  word  of  welcome  and  congratula- 
tion, but  she  won't  give  a  chap  any  margin,"  and  he  re- 
sumed his  conversation. 

The  third  time,  he  was  alone  in  the  room,  and  as  I 
backed  hastily  out  he  followed  me.  I  ran  —  so  did  he 
—  but  as  that  was  too  ridiculous  I  stopped  at  his  call 
and,  turning,  faced  him.  He  removed  his  hat  and  hur- 
riedly said :  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  forcing  myself  upon 
your  attention,  Miss  Morris,  but  any  man  with  a  grain 


OUR  THEATRE  LANDLORD   307 

of  self-respect  would  demand  an  explanation  of  such 
treatment  as  I  have  received  from  you.  Come  now,  you 
are  a  brave  girl,  an  honest  girl  —  tell  me,  please,  why 
you  avoid  me  as  if  I  were  the  plague.  Why,  good  Lord ! 
your  eyes  are  all  but  jumping  out  of  your  head!  Are 
you  afraid  even  to  be  seen  listening  to  me  ?  "  Suddenly 
he  stopped,  his  own  words  had  given  him  an  idea.  His 
eyes  snapped  angrily.  "  Well,  I'll  be  blessed !  "  he  ex- 
claimed ;  then  he  came  closer.  He  took  my  hand  and 
asked :  "  Miss  Morris,  have  you  been  putting  these  slights 
on  me  by  order  ?  " 

I  was  confused,  I  was  frightened;  I  remembered  the 
anger  Mr.  Gould's  presence  had  aroused,  and  this  was 
an  actual  breech  of  orders.  I  stammered :  "I  —  oh,  I 
just  happened  to  be  busy,  you  know." 

I  glanced  anxiously  about  me ;  he  replied :  "  Yes,  you 
were  very  busy  to-night,  sitting  in  the  green-room  doing 
nothing  —  yet  you  ran  as  if  I  were  a  leper.  Tell  me, 
little  woman  —  don't  be  afraid  —  have  you  been  obeying 
an  order  ?  " 

"  If  you  please  —  if  you  please !  "  was  all  I  could  say. 

He  looked  steadily  at  me,  lifted  my  hand  to  his  lips, 
and  said,  with  a  compassionate  sigh :  "  Bread  and  butter 
comes  high  in  New  York,  doesn't  it,  child?  There,  I 
won't  worry  you  any  longer,  but  Brother  Daly  and  I  will 
hold  a  little  love-feast  over  this  matter."  And  with  a 
laugh  he  returned  to  the  green-room,  where  I  could  hear 
him  singing  "  Lucy  Long  "  to  himself. 

A  fortnight  later,  rinding  him  again  surrounded  by  the 
company,  he  laughingly  called  out  to  me :  "  Don't  run 
away,  the  embargo  is  raised.  It  won't  cost  you  a  cent 
to  shake  hands  and  be  friendly !  "  And  as  I  seated  my- 
self in  the  place  he  made  beside  him,  he  added,  low: 
"  And  no  advantage  taken  of  it  outside  the  theatre." 

He  used  so  many  queer,  old-fashioned  words,  such  as 
"  chipper,"  "  tuckered,"  "  I  swan !  "  "  mean  tyke,"  etc., 
that  I  once  said  to  him :  "  I'm  afraid  you  have  washed 
your  face  in  a  pail  by  the  pump  ere  this,  Mr.  Fisk  ?  " 


308  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

He  laughed,  and  responded :  "  I'm  afraid  I  used  to 
be  sent  back  to  do  it  better,  when  I  had  first  to  break  the 
ice  to  get  to  the  water  in  the  pail,  Miss  Guesswell ! " 

And  then  he  gave  a  funny  imitation  of  a  boy  washing 
his  face  in  icy  water,  by  wetting  his  fingers  and  drawing 
a  circle  about  each  eye  and  his  mouth.  He  called  his 
wife  Lucy.  Heaven  knows  whether  it  really  was  her 
name,  but  he  always  referred  to  her  as  Lucy.  He  was 
very  fond  of  her,  in  spite  of  appearances,  and  proud  of 
her,  too.  He  said  to  me  once :  "  She  is  no  hair-lifting 
beauty,  my  Lucy,  just  a  plump,  wholesome,  big-hearted, 
commonplace  woman,  such  as  a  man  meets  once  in  a  life- 
time, say,  and  then  gathers  her  into  the  first  church  he 
comes  to,  and  seals  her  to  himself.  For  you  see  these 
commonplace  women,  like  common-sense,  are  apt  to  be- 
come valuable  as  time  goes  on !  " 

When  anyone  praised  some  wife,  he  would  look  up  and 
say :  "  Wife  —  whose  wife  ?  What  wife  ?  Bring  your 
wives  along,  I  ain't  afraid  to  measure  my  Lucy  with  'em. 
For,  look  here,  you  mustn't  judge  Lucy  by  her  James !  " 

A  divorce  case  was  before  the  courts,  and  it  was 
much  discussed  everywhere.  The  wife  had  been  jealous 
and  suspicious,  and  blond  hairs  (she  was  very  dark 
herself)  and  strange  hair-pins  held  a  ludicrous  promi- 
nence in  the  evidence.  "  Ah !  "  said  Fisk,  "  that's  not 
the  kind  of  a  wife  I  have !  Never,  never  does  Lucy  sur- 
prise me  with  a  visit,  God  bless  her!  No,  she  always 
telegraphs  me  when  she's  coming,  and  I  —  I  clear  up 
and  have  a  warm  welcome  for  her,  and  then  she's  pleased, 
and  that  pleases  me,  and  we  both  enjoy  our  visit.  Hang'd 
if  we  don't!  And  just  to  show  you  what  a  hero  —  yes, 
a  hero  —  she  is,  and,  talking  of  hair-pins,  let  me  tell  you 
now.  You  know  those  confounded  crooked  ones,  with 
three  infernal  crinkles  in  the  middle  to  keep  them  from 
falling  out  of  the  hair  ?  Those  English  chorus-girls  wear 
them,  I'm  told.  Well,  one  day  Lucy  comes  to  see  me. 
Oh,  she  had  sent  word  as  usual,  and  everything  was 
cleared  up  (I  supposed)  as  usual,  and  George,  my  man, 


JUST  A   PLAIN   HERO  309 

was  laying  out  some  clothes  for  me,  when  Lucy,  smooth- 
ing her  hand  over  the  sofa-cushion,  picks  up  and  holds 
to  the  light  an  infernal  crinkled  hair-pin.  George  turned 
white  and  looked  pleadingly  at  me.  I  saw  myself  in 
court  fighting  a  divorce  like  the  devil ;  and  then,  after  an 
awful,  perspiring  silence,  my  Lucy  says  —  she  that  has 
worn  straight  pins  all  her  life :  '  James,  that  is  a  lazy 
and  careless  woman  that  cares  for  your  rooms.  It's  three 
weeks  to-day  since  I  left  for  home,  and  here  is  one  of 
my  hair-pins  lying  on  the  sofa  ever  since ! ' 

"  If  she  had  put  it  in  her  hair  I  should  have  thought  her 
really  deceived  in  the  matter,  but  when  she  dropped  it 
in  the  fire,  I  knew  she  was  just  a  plain  hero!  I  walked 
over  and  knelt  down  and  said :  '  Thank  you,  Lucy,'  while 
I  pretended  to  tie  her  shoe.  George  was  so  upset  that 
he  dropped  the  studs  twice  over  he  was  trying  to  put 
into  a  shirt-front.  Oh,  I  tell  you  my  Lucy  can't  be  beat !  " 

The  time  he  won  the  name  of  "  Jubilee  Jim,"  when 
the  whole  country  was  laughing  over  his  triumphant  visit 
to  Boston  with  his  regiment,  he  made  this  unsmiling  ex- 
planation of  the  matter : 

"  You  see,  the  Ninth  and  I  were  both  tickled  over  the 
invitation  to  visit  Boston,  and  as  there  were  so  many  of 
us  I  paid  the  expenses  myself.  Being  proud  of  the  regi- 
ment and  anxious  it  should  be  acquainted  with  all  real 
American  institutions,  I  arranged  for  it  to  stay  over 
Sunday,  for  there  were  dozens  of  the  boys  who  had  never 
even  seen  a  slice  of  real  Boston  brown-bread  or  a  crock- 
baked  bean  —  and  a  Boston  Sunday  breakfast  was  to  be 
the  educational  feature  of  the  visit.  Everything  was 
lovely,  until  the  Ninth  suddenly  felt  a  desire  to  pray,  as 
well  as  to  eat,  and  I'll  be  switched  on  to  a  side-track  if  the 
minister  of  that  big  church  didn't  begin  to  kick  like  a  steer, 
and  finally  refuse  to  let  us  pray  in  his  shop.  Now,  if 
there's  anything  that  will  make  a  man  hot  as  blazes  in  a 
minute,  it's  choking  him  off  when  he  wants  to  pray. 
Some  sharply  pointed  and  peppery  words  were  exchanged 
.on  the  subject.  I  suppose  our  numbers  rather  muddled 


310  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

up  his  schedule,  but  if  he'd  said  so  quietly  I  could  have 
straightened  out  his  heavenly  time-table  so  that  there 
would  have  been  no  collision  between  trains  of  prayer. 
But  no,  instead  of  that,  he  slams  the  doors  of  his  church 
in  our  visiting  faces,  and,  in  act  at  least,  tells  us  to  go 
to  —  what's  that  polite  word  now  that  means  h — ?  What 
—  what  do  you  call  it  sheolf  Shucks!  that  word  won't 
become  popular  —  hasn't  got  any  snap  to  it!  Well,  the 
boys  were  mighty  blue,  they  thought  the  visit  was  off. 
But  I  got  'em  into  the  armory,  and  I  said,  what  amounted 
to  this,  I  says :  '  This  visit  ain't  off ;  Boston  is  right  as 
a  trivet,  and  wants  us!  We  ain't  bucking  against  the 
city,  but  against  that  sanctified  stingyike  who  don't  want 
anyone  in  heaven  but  his  own  gang;  but  you  see  here, 
when  the  Ninth  Regiment  wants  to  pray,  I'm  d — d  if  it 
don't  do  it.  Who  cares  for  that  church,  anyway,  where 
you'd  be  crowded  like  sardines  and  have  your  corns 
crushed  to  agony!  We'll  go  to  Boston,  boys,  and  we'll 
praise  the  Lord  on  the  Common,  if  they'll  let  us,  and  if 
they  won't,  we'll  march  out  to  the  suburbs  and  have  a 
perfect  jubilee  of  prayer! '  And  what  do  you  think,"  he 
cried,  grinning  like  a  mischievous  boy,  as  he  twisted  the 
long,  waxed  ends  of  his  mustache  to  needle-like  points, 
"  what  do  you  think  —  we  prayed  out  of  doors,  with  all 
female  Boston  and  her  attendants  looking  on  and  say- 
ing amen;  and,  oh,  by  George !  I  sent  a  man  to  see,  and 
'  stingyike's  '  church  was  nearly  empty !  Ha !  ha !  I  tell 
you  what  it  is,  when  a  New  York  soldier  wants  to  pray, 
he  prays,  or  something  gives ! "  After  that  he  was  Ju- 
bilee Jim. 

His  growing  stoutness  annoyed  him  greatly,  yet  he 
was  the  first  to  poke  fun  at  what  he  called  his  "  unmili- 
tary  figure."  One  evening  I  said :  "  Mr.  Fisk,  I'm  afraid 
you  have  cast  too  much  bread  upon  the  waters ;  it's  said 
to  be  very  fattening  food  when  it  returns  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  swan ! "  he  answered,  "  I'll  never  give  an- 
other widow  a  pass  over  any  road  of  mine  —  whether 
she's  black,  mixed,  or  grass,  for  that's  about  all  the  bread- 
casting  I  do." 


MR.  FISK'S   GENEROSITY          311 

This  was  not  true,  for  he  was  very  kind-hearted 
and  generous,  especially  to  working  people  who  were  in 
trouble.  His  "  black  widow  "  was  one  in  full  mourning, 
his  "  mixed  widow  "  was  the  poor  soul  who  had  only  a 
cheap  black  bonnet  or  a  scanty  veil  topping  her  ordinary 
colored  clothing  to  express  her  widowed  state,  while  the 
"  grasses  "  were,  in  his  own  words :  "  All  those  women 
who  were  not  married  —  but  ought  to  be." 

Whenever  he  gave  a  diamond  or  an  India  shawl  to  a 
French  opera-bouffe  singer  the  world  heard  of  it,  and 
the  value  grew  and  grew  daily,  and  that  publicity  grati- 
fied his  strange  distorted  vanity,  but  the  lines  of  widows, 
sometimes  with  hungry  little  flocks  hanging  at  their 
skirts,  that  he  passed  over  roads,  the  discharged  men  he 
"  sneaked  "  (his  own  word)  back  into  positions  again, 
because  of  their  suffering  brood,  he  kept  silent  about. 

He  never  got  angry  at  the  papers,  no  matter  what  ab- 
surdity they  printed  about  him.  At  the  time  of  the  riot 
some  paper  declared  he  had  left  his  men  and  had  climbed 
a  high  board  fence  in  order  to  escape  from  danger.  In 
referring  to  the  article  at  the  theatre  one  evening,  he  said, 
in  reproachful  tones :  "  Now  wasn't  that  a  truly  stupid 
lie  ?  "  He  rose,  and  placing  his  hands  where  his  waist 
should  have  been,  he  went  on  mournfully :  "  Look  at 
me!  I  look  like  a  sprinter,  don't  I?  If  you  just  could 
see  me  getting  into  that  uniform  —  no  offence,  ladies,  I 
don't  mean  no  harm.  Oh,  Lord,  who  has  a  small  gram- 
mar about  them  ?  Well,  when  I'm  in  the  clothes,  it  takes 
two  men's  best  efforts,  while  I  hold  my  breath,  to  clasp 
my  belt  —  and  they  say  I  climbed  that  high  fence !  Say, 
I'd  give  five  thousand  dollars  down  on  the  nail  if  I  had 
the  waist  to  do  that  act  with !  " 

He  was  not  only  a  natural  comedian,  but  he  had  an 
instinct  for  the  dramatic  in  real  life,  and  he  was  quick 
to  grasp  his  opportunity  at  the  burning  of  Chicago.  His 
relief  train  must  be  rushed  through  first  —  he  must  beg 
personally;  and  then  —  and  then,  oh,  happy  thought! 
all  the  city  knew  the  value  he  placed  upon  the  beautiful 


312  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

jet  black  stallion  he  rode  in  the  Park.  Out,  then,  he  and 
his  stall-mate  came  —  splendid,  fiery,  satin-coated  aris- 
tocrats! And  taking  their  places  before  a  great  express 
wagon,  went  prancing  and  curvetting  their  way  from 
door  to  door,  Mr.  Fisk  stopping  wherever  a  beckoning 
hand  appeared  at  a  window.  And  bundles  of  clothing, 
boxes  of  provisions,  anything,  everything  that  people 
would  give,  he  gathered  up  with  wild  haste,  and  brief, 
warm  thanks,  and  rushed  to  the  express  offices  for  proper 
sorting  and  packing.  Of  course  that  personal  service  was 
not  really  necessary.  A  modest  man  would  not  have 
done  it,  but  he  was  spectacular.  His  act  pleased  the 
people,  too,  and  really  many  were  moved  to  give  by  it. 
Their  fancy  was  caught  by  the  picture  of  the  be- 
diamonded  Jubilee  Jim  placing  himself  and  his  valuable 
horses  at  the  service  of  the  terror-stricken,  homeless 
Chicagoans. 

Though  he  was  himself  the  butt  of  most  of  his  jokes, 
he  often  expressed  his  opinions  in  terms  as  conclusive 
and  quite  as  funny  as  those  of  his  world-famous  reply 
to  the  sanctimonious  fence-committee,  who,  claiming  that 
the  laying  of  his  railroad  had  destroyed  the  greater  part 
of  the  old  fence  about  a  country  graveyard,  demanded 
that  he  should  replace  it  with  a  new  one.  Scarcely  were 
the  words  out  of  their  lips  than,  swift  as  a  flash,  came 
the  characteristic  answer :  "  What  under  heaven  do  you 
want  a  fence  round  a  graveyard  for?  The  poor  chaps 
that  are  in  there  can't  get  out,  and,  I'll  take  my  Bible 
oath,  those  that  are  out  don't  want  to  get  in!  Fence 
around  a  graveyard !  I  guess  not ;  I  know  a  dozen  bet- 
ter ways  of  spending  money  than  that !  " 

I  heard  much  of  his  generosity  on  benefit  nights,  but 
personally  I  never  tested  it.  Before  my  benefit  night 
arrived,  Mr.  Edward  Stokes  had  caught  Mr.  Fisk  on  a 
walled-in  staircase,  as  in  a  trap,  and  had  shot  him  down, 
and  then,  in  that  time  of  terror  and  excitement,  Jubilee 
Jim  proved  that  whatever  else  he  had  been  called  —  man 
of  sin,  fraud,  trickster,  clown  —  he  was  not  a  coward! 


MR.   FISK'S  SAD  END  313 

With  wonderful  self-control  he  asked,  as  the  clothing 
was  being  cut  from  his  stricken  body :  "  Is  this  the  end 
of  me;  am  I  going  to  die,  doctor?  " 

And  when  the  man  addressed  made  an  evasive  and 
soothing  answer,  that  his  hopeless  eyes  contradicted, 
James  Fisk  testily  continued :  "I  want  to  know  the 
truth !  "  Then,  more  gently :  "  I'm  not  afraid  to  die, 
doctor,  but  /  am  afraid  of  leaving  things  all  at  sixes  and 
sevens!  This  is  the  end  of  me,  isn't  it?  Well,  do  what 

you  can,  and,  George,  send  for  and  for  [his 

lawyers],  and  I  will  do  what  I  can.  When  can  Lucy 
get  here?" 

And  so  he  quickly  and  calmly  made  all  possible  use 
of  his  ebbing  strength  —  of  the  flying  moments  —  dis- 
proving at  least  one  charge,  that  of  cowardice.  He  was 
dying,  and  crowds  were  waiting  about  the  hotel  where 
he  lay,  hungry  for  any  morsel  of  news  from  the  victim's 
bedside.  That  was  the  situation  as  I  went  to  the  theatre. 
I  dressed  and  went  through  one  act,  then,  as  I  came  upon 
the  stage  in  the  second  act,  I  faced  Mr.  Fisk's  private 
box.  I  glanced  casually  at  it,  and  stopped  stock-still,  the 
words  dying  on  my  lips.  A  shiver  ran  over  me  —  some- 
one had  entered  the  box  since  the  first  act  and  had  low- 
ered the  heavy  red  curtains  and  drawn  them  close  together. 

No  one  could  fail  to  understand.  The  flood  of  light, 
the  waves  of  music  reached  to  the  edge  of  the  box  only 
—  within  were  silence,  darkness!  The  laughing  owner 
would  enter  there  no  more,  forever ! 

With  swelling  throat  I  stood  looking  up.  Another 
actor  entered,  saw  the  direction  of  my  eyes,  followed  it, 
and  next  moment  tears  were  on  his  cheeks.  Then  peo- 
ple in  the  house,  noticing  our  distress,  glanced  in  that 
same  direction,  and  here  and  there  a  man  rose  and  slipped 
out.  Here  and  there  a  handkerchief  was  pressed  to  a 
face,  for  without  a  word  being  spoken  all  knew,  by  the 
blank,  closed  box,  that  Mr.  Fisk  was  dead. 

I  never  knew  a  more. trying  evening  for  actors,  for  all 
knew  him  well  —  liked  him  and  grieved  for  him.  I  was 


3H  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

the  only  mere  acquaintance,  yet  I  was  deeply  moved  and 
found  it  hard  to  act  as  usual  before  that  mute,  blank 
box  —  hard  as  though  the  body  of  its  one-time  owner 
lay  within. 

So  he  made  his  exit  —  dramatic  to  the  last.  A  strange 
character  —  shrewd,  sharp,  vain,  ostentatious,  loving  his 
diamonds,  velvet  coats,  white  gloves.  The  monumental 
silver  water-pitchers  in  his  private  boxes  were  too  foul 
to  drink  from  generally,  but  then  the  public  could  see  the 
mass  of  silver.  A  bit  of  a  mountebank,  beyond  a  question, 
but  with  a  temper  so  sunny  and  a  heart  so  generous  that 
in  spite  of  all  his  faults  Jubilee  Jim  had  a  host  of  friends. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIXTH 

A  Search  for  Tears  —  I  Am  Punished  in  "  Saratoga  "  for 
the  Success  of  "  Man  and  Wife  "  —  I  Win  Mr.  Daly's 
Confidence  —  We  Become  Friends. 

THE  people  who  have  known  happiness  without 
the  alloying  if  or  but  are  few  and  far  between. 
"  Yes,  of  course  we  are  happy  —  but,"  "  I  should 
be  perfectly  and  completely  happy  —  if"  you  hear  peo- 
ple saying  every  day;  and  so  in  my  case,  having  been 
admitted  into  fellowship  with  the  men  and  women  of 
the  company,  who  were  a  gracious  and  charming  crowd, 
and  receiving  hearty  approval  each  night  from  the  great 
Public,  by  whose  favor  I  and  mine  existed,  I  was  grate- 
ful and  would  have  been  quite  happy  —  but  for  a  brand- 
new  difficulty  that  suddenly  loomed  up,  large,  and  wide, 
and  solid  before  me. 

Never  in  my  life  had  I  been  in  a  play  of  a  longer  run 
than  one  week.  Imagine,  then,  my  misery  when  I  found 
this  play,  that  was  already  old  to  me  at  the  end  of  the 
first  week,  was  likely  to  go  on  for  a  long  time  to  come. 
It  was  not  mere  ennui  over  the  repetition  of  the  same 
lines,  night  after  night,  that  troubled  me,  it  was  some- 
thing far  more  serious.  I  had  made  my  hit  with  the 
public  by  moving  the  people's  feelings  to  the  point  of 
tears ;  but  to  do  that  I  had  first  to  move  my  own  heart, 
for,  try  as  I  would,  no  amount  of  careful  acting  had  the 
desired  effect.  7  had  to  shed  tears  or  they  would  not. 
Now  that  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  do  to  order,  in  cold 
blood.  While  the  play  is  new  one's  nerves  are  strained 
almost  to  the  breaking  point  —  one  is  over-sensitive  and 
the  feelings  are  easily  moved;  then  the  pathetic  words 
I  am  speaking  touch  my  heart,  tears  rush  to  my  eyes, 

315 


316  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

tears  are  heard  in  my  voice,  and  other  hearts  respond 
swiftly;  but  when  you  have  calmed  down,  when  you 
have  repeated  the  lines  so  often  that  they  no  longer  mean 
anything  to  you,  what  are  you  to  do  then? 

Really  and  truly  there  were  days  when  I  was  nearly 
out  of  my  mind  with  terror  lest  I  should  not  be  able  to 
cry  that  night ;  for  those  tears  of  mine  had  a  commercial 
value  as  well  as  an  artistic,  and  Mr.  Daly  was  swift  to 
reproach  me  if  the  handkerchief  display  in  front  was  not 
as  great  as  usual.  This  sounds  absurd  perhaps  to  a 
reader,  but  heaven  knows  it  was  tragic  enough  to  me. 
I  used  to  agonize  all  day  over  the  question  of  tears  for 
the  night,  and  I  have  seen  the  time  when  even  my  own 
imaginary  tomb  failed  to  move  me. 

One  night,  when  my  eyes  were  dry  as  bones,  and  my 
voice  as  hard  as  stone,  and  Mr.  Daly  was  glaring  whitely 
at  me  from  the  entrance,  I  had  suddenly  a  sort  of  vision 
of  that  dethroned  actress  whom,  back  in  Cleveland,  I 
had  seen  uncrowned.  I  saw  her  quivering  face,  her 
stricken  eyes,  and  a  sudden  rush  of  tears  blinded  me. 
Later,  Mr.  Daly  said :  "  What  a  tricky  little  wretch  you 
are.  I  thought  you  were  going  to  throw  that  scene  away, 
without  a  single  tear  to-night.  I  suppose  you  were  doing 
it  to  aggravate  me,  though  ?  " 

Goodness  knows  I  was  grateful  enough  myself  for  the 
tears  when  they  did  come,  and  I  got  an  idea  from  that 
experience  that  has  served  me  all  the  years  since.  Every- 
thing else  —  love,  hate,  dignity,  passion,  vulgarity,  deli- 
cacy, duplicity,  all,  everything  can  be  assumed  to  order ; 
but,  for  myself,  tears  are  not  mechanical,  they  will  not 
come  at  will.  The  heart  must  be  moved,  and  if  the  part 
has  lost  its  power  then  I  must  turn  to  some  outside  in- 
cident that  has  power.  It  may  be  from  a  book,  it  may 
be  from  real  life  —  no  matter,  if  only  its  recalling  starts 
tears  to  weary  eyes. 

Thus  in  "  Alixe  "  it  was  not  for  my  lost  lover  I  often- 
est  wept  such  racing  tears,  but  for  poor  old  Tennessee's 
partner  as  he  buried  his  worthless  dead,  with  his  honest 


LEARNING  FRENCH  317 

old  heart  breaking  before  your  eyes.  While  in  "  Camille  " 
many  and  many  a  night  her  tears  fell  fast  over  the 
memory  of  a  certain  mother's  face  as  she  told  me  of  the 
moment  when,  returning  from  the  burial  of  her  only 
child,  the  first  snowflakes  began  to  whirl  through  the  still, 
cold  air,  and  she  went  mad  with  the  anguish  of  leaving 
the  little  tender  body  there  in  the  cold  and  dark,  and 
flung  herself  from  the  moving  carriage  and  ran,  scream- 
ing, back  to  the  small  rough  pile  of  earth  to  shelter  it 
with  her  own  living  body. 

So  there  is  my  receipt  for  sudden  tears.  I  being  — 
thank  heaven  —  a  cheerful  body,  and  given  to  frequent 
laughter,  may  laugh  in  peace  up  to  the  last  moment,  if  I 
have  only  stowed  away  some  heart-breaking  incident  that 
I  can  recall  at  the  proper  moment.  It  seems  like  taking 
a  mean  advantage  of  a  tender  heart,  I  know  —  what  Bret 
Harte  would  call  "  playing  it  low  down  "  on  it ;  but  what 
else  could  I  do?  I  leave  it  to  you.  What  could  you  do 
to  make  yourself  cry  seven  times  a  week,  for  nine  or 
ten  months  a  year  ? 

Then  there  was  another  great  change  in  the  new  life. 
I  was  used  to  rehearsing  every  day,  and,  lo!  when  once 
a  play  was  on  here,  there  followed  weeks,  perhaps  months, 
when  there  were  no  rehearsals.  Mercy!  I  could  never 
afford  to  waste  all  that  time;  but  what  could  I  do? 
"  One  and  two  and  three  and''  I  could  not  afford ;  but, 
oh,  if  I  could  take  some  French  lessons,  what  a  help  they 
would  be  to  me  in  the  proper  pronunciation  of  names 
upon  the  stage.  But  I  did  not  want  lessons  from  some 
ignorant  person,  or  someone  who  had  a  strange  dialect. 
I  have  all  my  life  had  such  a  horror  of  unlearning  things. 
I  knew  a  real  French  teacher  would  charge  me  a  real  "  for- 
true  "  price,  and  my  heart  was  doubtful  —  but  see  how 
fate  was  good  to  me.  There  was  in  Tenth  Street  a  little 
daughter  of  a  well-known  French  professor  —  he  taught 
in  a  certain  college.  The  daughter  was  eager  to  teach. 
The  father  said:  "Who  will  trust  so  young  a  girl  to 
instruct  them?  If  you  only  had  a  first  and  second  pupil, 


318  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

you  would  be  self-supporting.  French  teachers  are  in 
great  demand,  but  where  shall  you  find  that  first  pupil 
—  tell  me  that,  ma  fille.  No  matter  how  small  your 
charge,  the  question  will  be,  where  have  you  taught? 
No  one  will  wish  to  be  the  first  pupil." 

But,  fine  old  French  gentleman  as  he  was,  he  was  mis- 
taken nevertheless,  for  I  was  willing,  nay,  eager,  to  be 
that  first  pupil,  and  she  found  my  name  of  so  much  value 
to  her  in  obtaining  a  full  class  that  she  became  abso- 
lutely savage  in  her  fell  determination  to  make  me  speak 
her  beloved  language  correctly.  In  spite  of  her  eighteen 
years  she  looked  full  fourteen,  and  her  dignity  was  a 
fearful  thing  to  contemplate,  until  she  had  a  chocolate- 
cream  in  one  cheek  and  a  dimple  in  the  other,  then  some- 
how the  dignity  broke  in  the  middle  and  the  lesson  pro- 
gressed through  much  laughter. 

She  was  not  beautiful,  but  pretty  and  charming  to  such 
an  extent  that,  within  the  year,  she  became  Madame, 
carried  her  own  chocolates,  and  was  absolutely  vicious 
over  irregular  verbs.  Dear  little  woman  —  I  remember 
her  gratefully,  and  also  remember  that,  later  on,  I  paid 
just  six  times  as  much  per  lesson  to  an  elaborate  person, 
well-rouged,  who  taught  me  nothing,  lest  she  might 
offend  me  in  the  act.  I  know  this  to  be  true,  because 
one  day  I  deliberately  mispronounced  and  let  tenses  run 
wild,  to  see  if  she  would  have  the  honesty  or  courage 
to  correct  me;  but  she  looked  a  trifle  surprised,  rear- 
ranged her  bangles,  and  let  it  all  pass.  I  then  resigned 
my  position  as  pupil,  that  she  might  give  her  very  ques- 
tionable assistance  as  teacher  to  some  other  scholar, 
shorter  of  temper,  and  more  sensitive  to  rebuke  or  cor- 
rection than  I  was. 

At  the  theatre  I  think  everyone  liked  me  well  enough, 
save  Mr.  Daly.  He  disliked  me  because  I  simply  could 
not  learn  to  treat  him  with  reverence.  I  had  the  greatest 
admiration  for  him,  I  showed  him  respect  by  obeying 
him  implicitly,  but  if  he  was  funny  I  laughed,  if  he  gave 
me  an  opportunity  to  twist  his  words  absurdly  I  accepted 
it  as  gleefully  as  if  he  had  been  the  gas-man. 


NO  INDIVIDUAL  SUCCESSES      319 

But  two  things  happened,  and  lo!  my  manager's  atti- 
tude toward  me  changed  completely.  Mr.  Daly  was  con- 
vinced that  no  man  or  woman  could  bear  decently  a 
sudden  success.  He  was  positive  that  no  head  could 
stand  it.  When  I  made  no  demand  for  my  promised  in- 
crease of  salary,  but  went  pinching  along  as  best  I  could, 
he  only  said  to  himself :  "  She  will  be  all  the  worse  when 
her  head  does  begin  to  turn." 

One  day  a  certain  newspaper  man  looked  in  at  his 
office,  and  said :  "  Oh,  I  have  something  here  about  the 
play,  and  I've  given  a  few  pretty  good  lines  to  your  find 
(Clara  Morris)  :  do  you  want  to  look  at  them?  " 

"  I  want  them  cut  out !  "  sharply  ordered  Mr.  Daly. 

"  Cut  out?  "  repeated  the  surprised  man.  "  Why,  she's 
the  play  —  or  mighty  near  it.  I  thought  you'd  want  her 
spoken  of  most  particularly  ?  " 

And  then  Mr.  Daly  made  his  famous  speech :  "  I  don't 
want  individual  successes,  sir,  in  my  theatre!  I  want 
my  company  kept  at  a  level.  I  put  them  all  in  a  line, 
and  then  I  watch,  and  if  one  head  begins  to  bob  up  above 
the  others,  I  give  it  a  crack  and  send  it  down  again ! " 

I  had  heard  that  story  in  several  forms,  when  one  day 
I  spoke  of  it  to  Mr.  Daly,  and  he  calmly  acknowledged 
the  speech,  as  I  have  given  it  above,  adding  the  words: 
"  And  next  week  I'm  going  to  give  Mr.  Crisp's  head  a 
crack,  he's  bobbing  up,  I  see !  " 

The  play  of  "  Saratoga,"  by  Mr.  Bronson  Howard,  had 
been  read  to  the  company,  and,  after  the  custom  of  actors 
the  world  over,  they  began  to  cast  the  characters  them- 
selves—  such  a  part  for  Lewis,  such  a  one  for  Miss 
Davenport.  The  splendid  Irish  part  for  Amy  Ames  (of 
course,  with  her  wonderful  brogue),  etc.;  almost  every- 
one remarking  that  there  was  nothing  for  me.  Lewis 
said :  "  Well,  Clara,  you're  out  of  this  play,  sure.  Will 
you  study  Greek  or  the  Rogue's  Vocabulary?  for  I'll 
wager  a  hat  to  a  hair-pin  you'll  be  turning  a  good  head 
of  hair  gray  over  some  nonsense  of  the  kind  —  good 
Lord!" 


320  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

For  M.  Benot  was  holding  toward  me  a  thin  little  part, 
saying :  "  For  you,  Miss  Morris." 

Mr.  Daly  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  room;  he  was 
watching  me.  The  part  was  a  walking  lady  of  second 
quality.  It  was  an  indignity  to  give  it  to  me.  Like 
lightning  I  recalled  the  terms  of  my  contract  —  I  realized 
my  helplessness. 

I  rolled  up  the  small  part,  calmly  rose,  and  smiling  a 
comprehending  smile  into  Mr.  Daly's  disappointed  eyes, 
for  which  he  could  have  choked  me,  I  sauntered  out  of 
the  room.  At  home  I  wept  bitterly.  It  was  undeserved ! 
I  had  borne  so  much  from  gratitude,  and  here  I  was 
being  treated  just  as  a  fractious,  brain-turned,  presum- 
ing person  might  have  been  treated  for  a  punishment. 
However,  my  tears  were  only  seen  at  home.  At  the  the- 
atre I  rehearsed  faithfully  and  good-temperedly,  and 
writhed  smilingly  at  the  expressions  of  surprise  over  the 
cast,  and  for  one  hundred  nights  I  was  thus  made  to  do 
penance  for  having  made  a  success  in  "  Man  and  Wife." 
Truly  I  had  got  a  good  "  crack  "  for  bobbing  up ;  still 
my  patient,  uncomplaining  acceptance  of  the  part  had 
made  an  impression  on  Mr.  Daly,  and  he  often  expressed 
his  regret,  later  on,  for  the  error  he  made  as  to  the  pos- 
sible turning  of  my  head. 

Then  came  the  second  happening.  To  Mr.  Daly  a 
confidant  was  an  absolute  necessity  of  existence.  If  they 
had  tastes  in  common,  so  much  the  happier  for  Mr.  Daly, 
but  such  tastes  were  not  imperatively  demanded,  neither 
was  sex  of  importance  —  male  or  female  would  answer; 
but  the  one  great,  indispensable,  and  essential  quality  was 
the  ability  to  respect  a  confidence,  the  power  to  hold  a 
tongue. 

In  the  early  weeks  of  the  season  he  had  been  drifting 
into  a  friendship  with  a  man  in  the  company,  and  had 
told  him,  in  strictest  confidence,  of  a  certain  plan  he  was 
forming,  and  twenty-four  hours  later  he  heard  that  plan 
being  discussed  in  one  of  the  dressing-rooms.  It  had 
traveled  by  way  of  husband  to  wife,  wife  to  friend,  friend 


A  HINT   OF   BETTER   THINGS     321 

to  her  husband,  and  husband  No.  2,  was  busy  in  explain- 
ing it  to  all  and  sundry. 

That  ended  the  career  of  one  gentleman  as  friend  and 
confidant  to  Mr.  Daly.  One  day  after  rehearsal  I  was 
detained  on  the  stage  to  discuss  a  fashion-plate  he  was 
tearing  from  a  magazine.  A  short  poem  caught  his  eye. 
He  glanced  at  it  carelessly,  then  looked  more  closely  at 
the  lines,  and  began  to  mumble  the  words: 

"  She  of  the  silver  foot  —  fair  goddess  —  " 

His  brows  were  knit,  his  eyes  looked  away,  dreamily. 
Again  he  repeated  the  words,  adding,  impatiently :  "  I 
can't  place  that  silver  foot  —  the  bow,  the  lyre,  yes;  but 
the  foot?  Oh,  probably  it's  a  mere  figure  of  speech," 
and  he  turned  to  the  plate  again,  when  I  said :  "  Perhaps 
it  means  Thetis,  you  know,  silver-footed  queen  —  daugh- 
ter of  old  sea-god." 

His  whole  face  lit  up  with  pleasure.  "  That's  it,"  he 
said,  "  that's  whom  it  means ;  but  are  you  sure  the  word 
'  queen  '  belongs  right  there  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  laughed,  "  I  have  grave  doubts  about  my 
'  queen/  but  I'm  solid  as  a  rock  on  the  rest  of  the  line." 

Then  he  repeated,  with  lingering  enjoyment :  "  '  Thetis, 
silver-footed,  silver-footed,  daughter  of  old  sea-god.'  Do 
you  know  I  often  wonder  why  someone  does  not  make 
a  play  of  mythological  characters  —  a  play  after  the  mod- 
ern method  I  mean." 

"  Oh,"  I  broke  in,  "  then  I  shall  have  a  rest,  for  I  am 
not  beautiful  enough  for  even  a  walking-lady  divinity." 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  kindly,  "  you  are  not  going  to  do  any 
more  walking  ladies  —  divine  or  human.  I  have  already 
in  my  possession  a  play  with  a  great  part  for  you.  Bou- 
cicault  wrote  it,  and ' 

He  stopped  suddenly,  all  the  brightness  went  out  of  his 
face.  He  played  nervously  with  his  watch-guard.  He 
started  out  with :  "  Miss  Morris,  I  wish  — "  stopped, 
frowned;  then  impatiently  took  up  the  picture-plate, 


322  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

pointed  out  which  dress  he  wanted  me  to  wear,  and  curtly 
dismissed  me. 

I  understood  him  perfectly.  In  a  genial  moment  he 
had  unintentionally  given  me  some  information  which  he 
now  regretted,  though  he  would  not  stoop  to  ask  my 
silence;  and  he  felt  sure  that  I  would  at  once  boast  of 
the  great  part  that  was  to  be  mine;  and  I  went  home, 
one  broad  smile  of  malicious  satisfaction,  for  in  spite  of 
my  seemingly-careless  speech,  I  had,  by  long  and  careful 
training,  acquired  the  fine  art  of  holding  my  tongue  about 
other  people's  affairs,  even  though  I  ascended  to  the  roof 
to  babble  to  the  city  of  my  own;  and  Mr.  Daly  would 
be  again  disappointed,  as  he  had  been  the  day  I  accepted, 
without  protest,  the  walking-lady  part. 

That  night  he  barely  nodded  in  silent  recognition  of 
my  "  Good-evening,  sir."  Next  morning  he  kept  his  eyes 
averted  from  me  when  he  gave  me  any  stage  directions; 
but  whenever  or  wherever  we  women  formed  a  little 
group  to  chat,  there  Mr.  Daly,  like  a  jack-in-the-box, 
suddenly  sprang  into  evidence.  It  was  very  funny  —  he 
was  simply  waiting  for  me  to  repeat  my  interesting  in- 
formation. 

Two,  three  days  passed,  then  a  certain  kindness  began 
to  show  in  his  manner  toward  me.  Quite  suddenly,  and 
of  course  unasked,  he  gave  me  a  dressing-room  to  my- 
self. I  was  delighted!  Hesitatingly,  I  tapped  at  the 
door  of  his  office.  I  had  never  stood  there  before,  save 
by  order.  I  said :  "  I  will  not  come  in,  Mr.  Daly,  I  only 
wished  to  thank  you  for  the  room  you  have  given  me. 
It  will  be  a  great  comfort,  for  we  are  terribly  crowded  in 
the  other  one." 

But  he  rose,  took  my  hand,  and  said :  "  You  deserve 
anything  and  everything  this  theatre  can  provide  for 
you."  Drawing  me  to  a  chair,  he  placed  me  in  it,  while 
still  speaking :  "  And  I  am  proud  of  you.  You  are  a  girl 
in  ten  thousand !  for  you  can  respect  a  confidence." 

I  was  very  much  embarrassed  by  such  unexpect- 
ed warmth,  and  laughing  nervously  I  said :  "  Even 


MR.  DALY'S  CHARACTERISTICS    323 

when  the  confidence  was  unintentional  and  deeply  re- 
gretted?" 

"  Ah !  "  he  answered,  "  you  saw  that,  did  you  ?  Well, 
I've  been  listening  and  waiting  to  hear  about  the  f  new 
play '  ever  since,  but  not  a  word  have  you  dropped,  and 
I  did  not  ask  for  silence  either.  You  are  a  woman  worth 
talking  to,  and  I  shall  never  be  afraid  to  tell  you  things 
I  am  going  to  do,  and ' 

And  straightway  he  told  me  all  about  the  new  play  — 
its  good  points,  its  bad  ones,  and  where  he  feared  for  it ; 
and  to  show  you  how  true  was  his  judgment,  the  play, 
which  later  on  gave  me  a  great  personal  success,  was 
itself  a  failure  from  the  very  causes  he  then  indicated. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Mr.  Daly,  putting  aside  his 
dislike  for  me  —  coming  to  enjoy  my  sense  of  the  ridicu- 
lous, instead  of  resenting  it  —  confided  many,  many  plans 
and  dreams,  likes  and  dislikes,  hates  and  loves  to  me. 
We  quarreled  spitefully  over  politics,  fought  furiously 
over  religion,  wickedly  bowed  down  and  worshipped  be- 
fore odds  and  ends  of  lovely  carvings  or  precious  cloi- 
sonne, to  whose  beauty  I  first  introduced  him,  and  hung 
in  mutual  rapture  over  rare  old  engravings. 

Thus  I  came  to  know  him  fairly  well.  A  man  with 
unbounded  ambition,  a  man  of  fine  and  delicate  tastes, 
with  a  passionate  love  of  beauty  —  in  form,  color,  sound. 
I  have  known  him  to  turn  a  sentence,  exquisitely,  word  by 
word,  slowly  repeating  the  line,  as  though  he  were  tast- 
ing its  beauty,  as  well  as  hearing  it.  Interested  in  the 
occult  and  the  inscrutable  —  a  man  of  many  tastes,  but  of 
one  single  purpose  —  every  power  and  acquirement  were 
brought  to  the  service  of  the  stage. 

In  love  he  was  mutability  personified.  In  friendship, 
always  exigent.  Now  sullenly  silent,  now  rapidly  talk- 
ative, whimsical,  changeable,  he  was  ever  lavishly  gen- 
erous and  warm-hearted.  And  it  is  a  comfort  to  know 
that  in  one  respect  at  least  I  proved  satisfactory  during 
the  friendship  that  lasted  as  long  as  I  remained  in  the 
theatre,  since  I  never,  even  by  chance,  betrayed  his  con- 
fidence. 


324  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

When  we  had  finally  parted,  a  man  one  day  mentioned 
me  to  Mr.  Daly,  expecting  to  bring  forth  some  disparag- 
ing remark.  There  was  a  pause  while  my  former  man- 
ager gazed  out  at  the  heavily  falling  rain,  then  he  said, 
quietly :  "  When  you  drop  a  thing  in  a  well,  it  can  go 
no  further.  Clara  Morris  is  a  sort  of  human  well,  what 
you  confide  to  her  goes  no  further.  Some  people  call 
that  '  discretion/  I  call  it  loyalty.  I  —  I  guess  you'll 
get  a  wetting  on  the  way  home/'  And  acting  on  that 
hint  the  surprised  gentleman  withdrew.  He  told  me 
himself  of  the  occurrence,  and  I  confess  that  Mr.  Daly's 
words  gave  me  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

After  those  two  occurrences  I  found  my  theatrical  life 
pleasanter,  for  I  love  my  kind  and  wish  to  live  at  peace 
with  them  —  and  Mr.  Daly's  dislike  had  disturbed  and 
distressed  me ;  therefore,  when  that  had  been  conquered, 
great  was  my  contentment.  A  sympathetic  word,  a  com- 
prehending glance,  a  friendly  smile,  proving  ample  in- 
demnification for  former  injuries. 

Nor  could  1  be  made  to  accept  at  full  value  the  cruel 
gibes,  the  bitter  sarcasms  reported  to  me  as  coming  from 
Miss  Agnes  Ethel.  For  some  reason  there  was  a  dis- 
tinct effort  made  to  arouse  in  me  an  enmity  against  that 
lady.  Unpleasant  stories  had  been  repeated  to  me  dur- 
ing the  run  of  "  Man  and  Wife  " ;  some  of  them  had 
wounded  me,  but  I  had  only  listened  silently.  Then  one 
night  I  met  her  —  a  slender,  auburn-haired,  appealing 
creature,  with  clinging  fingers,  sympathetic  voice,  and 
honest  eyes  —  a  woman  whose  charming  and  cordial 
manner  not  only  won  my  admiration,  but  convinced  me 
she  was  incapable  of  the  brutalities  charged  to  her. 

So  when  "  Jezebel  "  was  announced,  and  it  was  known 
that  Mr.  Daly  desired  Miss  Ethel  and  me  both  to  appear  in 
it,  great  interest  was  aroused,  only  to  be  crushed  by  Miss 
Ethel's  refusal  to  play  the  part  allotted  to  her.  I  think 
she  was  in  error,  for  the  two  parts  were  perfectly  bal- 
anced. Mine  was  the  wicked,  even  murderous  advent- 
uress ;  hers  the  gentle,  sweet,  and  triumphant  wife.  J 


MISS   ETHEL   LEAVES   US         325 

had  the  first  act ;  she  was  not  in  that,  but  Mr.  Daly's  idea 
was  that  her  victory  in  the  last  act  —  where  I  was  simply 
pulverized  for  my  sins  —  evened  things  up.  But  Miss 
Ethel  listened  to  the  advice  of  outside  friends.  Her  re- 
lations with  Mr.  Daly  were  already  strained,  and  her 
second  refusal  of  a  part  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

Mr.  Daly  himself  informed  me  that  she  said  her  part 
was  secondary,  but  that  the  real  difficulty  sprang  from 
an  earlier  wrangle  between  them,  with  which  I  had  noth- 
ing to  do.  Yet  there  were  persons  who,  with  great  in- 
dignation, informed  me  that  Miss  Ethel  had  positively 
"  refused  to  appear  upon  the  stage  in  any  play  with  me 
—  a  mere  vulgar  outsider !  " 

But  "vulgar  outsider"  was  just  a  touch  too  strong; 
"  malice  had  o'erleaped  self  "  and  fallen  on  the  other  side. 
The  silly  story  even  reached  some  of  the  papers,  but  that 
did  not  increase  my  belief  in  its  truth. 

Mr.  Daly  and  Miss  Ethel  parted  company  before,  or 
at,  the  end  of  the  season,  and  while  I  never  worked  with 
her,  later  on  I  privately  received  such  gracious  courtesies 
from  her  kindly  hands  that  the  name  of  Agnes  Ethel 
must  ever  ring  pleasantly  in  my  ears 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVENTH 

A  Study  of  Stage-Management  —  I  Am  Tricked  into  Sign- 
ing a  New  Contract. 

BEFORE  I  came  under  the  management  of  Mr. 
Daly,  I  may  say  I  never  really  knew  what  stage- 
management  meant.     He  was  a  young  man  then; 
he  had  had,  I  believe,  his  own  theatre  but  one  season 
before  I  joined  his  forces,  yet  his  judgment  was  as  ripe, 
his  decisions  were  as  swift  and  sure,  his  eye  for  effect  was 
as  true,  his  dramatic  instinct  as  keen  as  well  could  be. 

We  never  exchanged  so  much  as  a  frown,  let  alone  a 
hasty  word,  over  work.  I  realized  that  he  had  the  en- 
tire play  before  his  "  mind's  eye,"  and  when  he  told  me 
to  do  a  thing,  I  should  have  done  it,  even  had  I  not 
understood  why  he  wished  it  done.  But  he  always  gave 
a  reason  for  things,  and  that  made  it  easy  to  work  under 
him. 

His  attention  to  tiny  details  amazed  me.  One  morn- 
ing, after  Mr.  Crisp  had  joined  the  company,  he  had  to 
play  a  love-scene  with  me,  and  the  "  business  "  of  the 
scene  required  him  to  hold  me  some  time  in  his  embrace. 
But  Mr.  Crisp's  embrace  did  not  suit  Mr.  Daly  —  no 
more  did  mine.  Out  he  went,  in  front,  and  looked  at  us. 
"  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  confound  it !  Miss  Morris,  relax  — 
relax!  lean  on  him  —  he  won't  break!  That's  better 
—  but  lean  more !  lean  as  if  you  needed  support !  What  ? 
Yes,  I  know  you  don't  need  it  —  but  you're  in  love,  don't 
you  see?  and  you're  not  a  lady  by  a  mile  or  two!  For 
God's  sake,  Crisp,  don't  be  so  stiff  and  inflexible !  Here, 
let  me  show  you !  " 

Up  Mr.  Daly  rushed  on  to  the  stage,  and  taking  Crisp's 
place,  convulsed  the  company  with  his  effort  at  acting 

326 


MR.  DALY'S   DRILLING  327 

the  lover.  Then  back  again  to  the  front,  ordering  us  to 
try  that  embrace  again. 

"  That's  better !  "  he  cried ;  "  but  hold  her  hand  closer, 
tighter!  not  quite  so  high  —  oh,  that's  too  low!  Don't 
poke  your  arm  out,  you're  not  going  to  waltz.  What  in 
—  are  you  scratching  her  back  for  ?  " 

It  was  too  much;  in  spite  of  the  awe  in  which  Mr. 
Daly  was  held,  everyone,  Crisp  included,  screamed  with 
laughter,  while  Mr.  Daly  fumed  and  fretted  over  the 
time  that  was  being  wasted. 

One  of  my  early  experiences  of  his  way  of  directing 
a  rehearsal  made  a  deep  impression  upon  me.  In  the 
play  of  "  Jezebel "  I  had  the  title  part.  There  were  a 
number  of  characters  on  in  the  scene,  and  Mr.  Daly 
wanted  to  get  me  across  the  stage,  so  that  I  should  be 
out  of  hearing  distance  of  two  of  the  gentlemen.  Now, 
in  the  old  days,  the  stage-director  would  simply  have 
said :  "  Cross  to  the  Right,"  and  you  would  have  crossed 
because  he  told  you  to;  but  in  Mr.  Daly's  day  you  had 
to  have  a  reason  for  crossing  the  drawing-room,  and  so 
getting  out  of  the  two  gentlemen's  way  —  and  a  reason 
could  not  be  found. 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  many  rejected  ideas :  There  was 
no  guest  for  me  to  cross  to  in  welcoming  pantomime ;  no 
piano  on  that  side  of  the  room  for  me  to  cross  to  and  play 
on  softly;  ah,  the  fireplace!  and  the  pretty  warming  of 
one  foot  ?  But  no,  it  was  summer-time,  that  would  not  do. 
The  ancient  fancy-work,  perhaps  ?  No,  she  was  a  human 
panther,  utterly  incapable  of  so  domestic  an  occupation. 
The  fan  forgotten  on  the  mantel-piece  ?  Ah,  yes,  that  was 
it!  you  cross  the  room  for  that  —  and  then  suddenly  I 
reminded  Mr.  Daly  that  he  had,  but  a  moment  before, 
made  a  point  of  having  me  strike  a  gentleman  sharply 
on  the  cheek  with  my  fan. 

"  Oh,  confound  it,  yes ! "  he  answered,  "  and  that's 
got  to  stand  —  that  blow  is  good !  " 

The  old,  old  device  of  attendance  upon  the  lamp  was 
suggested;  but  the  hour  of  the  day  was  plainly  given 


328  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

by  one  of  the  characters  as  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. 

These  six  are  but  few  of  the  many  rejected  reasons 
for  that  one  cross  of  the  stage ;  still  Mr.  Daly  would  not 
permit  a  motiveless  action,  and  we  came  to  a  momentary 
standstill.  Very  doubtfully,  I  remarked :  "  I  suppose  a 
smelling-bottle  would  not  be  important  enough  to  cross 
the  room  for?  " 

He  brightened  quickly  —  clouded  over  even  more 
quickly :  "  Y-e-e-s !  N-o-o !  at  least,  not  if  it  had  never 
appeared  before.  But  let  me  see  —  Miss  Morris,  you 
must  carry  that  smelling-bottle  in  the  preceding  scene, 
and  —  and,  yes,  I'll  just  put  in  a  line  in  your  part,  mak- 
ing you  ask  some  one  to  hand  it  to  you  —  that  will  nail 
attention  to  it,  you  see!  Then  in  this  scene,  when  you 
leave  these  people  and  cross  the  room  to  get  your  smell- 
ing-bottle from  the  mantel,  it  will  be  a  perfectly  natural 
action  on  your  part,  and  will  give  the  men  their  chance 
of  explanation  and  warning."  And  at  last  we  were  free 
to  move  on  to  other  things. 

Above  all  was  he  eager  to  have  his  stage  present  a 
home-like  interior.  Never  shall  I  forget  my  amazement 
when  I  first  saw  a  piece  of  furniture  occupying  the  very 
centre  of  the  stage,  while  I  with  others  were  reduced  to 
acting  in  any  scrap  of  room  we  could  "  scrooge  "  into,  as 
children  say. 

Long  trains  were  fashionable  then,  and  it  was  no  un- 
common sight  to  see  the  lover  standing  with  both  feet 
firmly  planted  upon  his  lady's  train  while  he  implored  her 
to  fly  with  him  —  the  poor  man  had  to  stand  somewhere ! 
Miss  Davenport,  in  one  of  her  comedy  scenes,  having  to 
move  about  a  good  deal  on  the  crowded  stage,  finally 
wound  her  trailing  skirts  so  completely  about  a  chair  that, 
at  her  exit,  the  chair  went  with  her,  causing  a  great  laugh. 

One  night  a  male  character,  having  to  say  boastfully 
to  me :  "I  have  my  hand  upon  a  fortune !  "  I  added  in 
an  undertone :  "  And  both  feet  upon  my  white  satin 
dress!  "  at  which  he  lost  his  grip  (as  the  boys  say)  and 
laughed  aloud  —  said  laugh  costing  him  a  forfeit  of  fifty 


STAGE   DISCIPLINE  329 

cents,  which  really  should  have  been  paid  by  me,  as  I 
was  the  guilty  cause  of  that  disastrous  effect.  But  the 
gentleman  was  not  only  gallant  but  well  used  to  being 
forfeited,  and  unconcernedly  paid  the  penalty  exacted. 

But  really  it  was  very  distressing  trying  to  make  your 
way  between  pieces  of  furniture  —  stopping  to  release 
your  skirts  from  first  one  thing  and  then  another,  and 
often  destroying  all  the  effect  of  your  words  by  such  ac- 
tion. One  evening  I  petulantly  observed  to  Mr.  Daly : 
"  I  see  now  why  one  is  only  zvoolly  in  the  West  —  in  the 
East  one  gets  the  wool  all  rubbed  off  on  unnecessary 
pedestals  and  centre-divans." 

He  laughed  first,  then  pulled  up  sharply,  saying :  "  Per- 
haps you  did  not  notice  that  your  comment  contained  a 
criticism  of  my  judgment,  Miss  Morris?  If  I  think  the 
furniture  necessary,  that  is  sufficient,"  and  I  gave  him  a 
military  salute  and  ran  down-stairs.  At  the  foot  Mr. 
George  Brown  and  one  of  the  pretty  young  women  stood. 
She  was  saying :  "  Now  if  any  of  us  had  said  there  was 
too  much  crowding  from  that  rubbishy  old  furniture,  he 
would  have  made  us  pay  a  nice  forfeit  for  it,  but  Miss 
Morris  gets  off  scot-free !  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  "  but  then  she  amused 
him  first  with  the  idea  of  rubbing  the  Western  wool  off 
here,  and  you  can't  very  well  laugh  and  then  turn  around 
and  forfeit  the  person  who  made  you  do  it." 

And  so  I  learned  that  if  no  detail  was  too  small  for  Mr. 
Daly  to  consider  carefully  in  his  preparation  of  a  play,  so 
no  detail  of  daily  life  in  his  theatre  was  too  small  for 
notice,  consideration,  and  comment,  and  I  resolved  to  try 
hard  to  curb  my  careless  speech,  lest  it  get  me  into  trouble. 

Early  during  that  first  week  my  friend,  John  Norton, 
said  to  me :  "  Have  you  spoken  to  Mr.  Daly  about  your 
salary  yet  ?  " 

"  Good  gracious,  no !  "  I  answered. 

"  Well,  but  you  should,"  he  persisted ;  "  that  is  only 
business.  You"  have  made  a  great  hit ;  he  promised  you 
to  double  thirty-five  dollars  if  you  made  a  favorable  im- 
pression," 


330  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

"  Well/'  I  cried,  "  wait  till  salary-day,  and  very  likely 
I'll  get  it ;  he  will  keep  his  word,  only,  for  mercy's  sake, 
give  him  a  chance !  It  would  insult  him  were  I  to  remind 
him,  now,  of  his  promise." 

I  was  content  to  wait,  but  Mr.  Norton  was  anxious. 
Monday  came  and,  tremblingly,  I  opened  my  envelope  to 
find  thirty-five  dollars  —  no  more,  no  less.  I  knew  what 
anyone  else  would  do,  I  knew  I  was  valuable  to  Mr.  Daly, 
but,  oh,  those  years  and  years  of  repression  —  for  so  long 
a  time  to  be  seen  —  not  heard,  had  been  the  law  of  my 
weary  life,  and  now  the  old  thrall  was  upon  me,  I  simply 
could  not  demand  my  right. 

The  tears  fell  fast  as  I  went  home,  with  that  miserable 
wage  in  my  hand.  We  were  in  such  dreadful  straits  for 
clothing.  Other  needs  we  could  hide,  but  not  the  need 
of  outer  garments.  I  was  quite  sick  with  disappointment 
and  anxiety,  yet  I  would  not  permit  Mr.  Norton  to  go  and 
speak  for  me,  as  that  would  mean  gossip  as  to  his  right 
to  interfere. 

I  used  to  plan  out  exactly  what  I  was  going  to  say,  and 
start  a  little  earlier  to  the  theatre,  that  I  might  have  time 
to  see  Mr.  Daly  and  remind  him  of  his  promise,  and  then, 
when  I  got  there,  unconquerable  shame  overcame  me  — 
I  could  not ! 

Then  one  night  Mr.  Daly  asked  me  to  sign  a  contract 
for  five  years,  with  a  certain  rise  in  salary  each  year.  I 
utterly  refused.  I  knew  that  would  mean  absolute  bond- 
age. He  said  he  would  raise  my  salary  now,  if  I  would 
sign;  and  I  did  actually  whisper,  that  he  had  not  kept 
his  promise  about  this  year's  salary. 

He  curtly  answered :  "  Never  mind  this  year  —  sign 
for  five,  and  this  season  will  then  take  care  of  itself !  " 

"  No,"  I  said,  and  yet  again  "  No!  "  "  Mr.  Daly,"  I 
cried,  "  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you  all  the  days  of  my  life 
for  giving  me  this  chance  in  New  York  —  you  are  treat- 
ing me  badly,  but  I  am  grateful  enough  not  to  rebel.  I 
will  play  for  you  every  season  of  my  life,  if  you  want  me ; 
I  will  never  consider  an  offer  without  first  telling  you  of 
it,  but  you  must  engage  me  but  for  one  season  at  a  time." 


SIGNING  FOR   A   SEASON         331 

"  Then  you  can  go !  "  he  said.  "  All  my  people  are  en- 
gaged from  three  to  five  years  —  I  will  not  break  my  rule 
for  anyone ;  so  now  you  can  choose !  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  answered,  huskily,  "  you  chose  for  me 
when  you  told  me  to  go !  "  I  bowed  to  him  and  went  out, 
sore  at  heart  and  deeply  wounded,  for  I  was  keeping  si- 
lent as  to  his  broken  promise  out  of  sheer  gratitude  for 
the  opening  he  had  given  me. 

The  letter-box  for  the  company  hung  near  his  private 
office.  One  night,  as  he  unlocked  his  door,  he  saw  old 
man  Keating  (the  stage-door  man)  sorting  out  letters  for 
the  various  boxes.  One  caught  Mr.  Daly's  eye,  bearing 
the  name  of  Wallack.  He  took  it  from  Keating's  hand ; 
it  was  addressed  to  Clara  Morris.  No  one  ever  called  Mr. 
Daly  a  dull  man,  and  when  he  put  two  and  two  together, 
even  in  a  hurry,  he  knew  quite  well  that  the  result  would 
be  four ;  and  when  he  put  the  words,  "  Wallack's  The- 
atre," and  the  address,  "  Clara  Morris,"  together  he  knew 
equally  well  the  result  would  be  an  offered  engagement. 
Then  Mr.  Daly  put  back  the  letter  and  said  sharply  to 
the  reverent  Keating :  "  Whatever  you  do,  don't  let  Miss 
Morris  pass  you  when  she  comes  in.  Stop  her  before  she 
takes  her  key.  Remember,  whether  early  or  late,  stop  her 
anyway,  and  send  her  to  my  room.  Tell  her  it  is  urgent 
—  you  understand?  Before  she  gets  her  key  (by  the  let- 
ter-box) I  must  see  her!  " 

Yes,  he  understood,  for  when  I  came  in  I  was  switched 
away  from  the  key-board  in  a  jiffy  and  rushed  by  the 
elbow  to  the  governor's  office,  and  even  held  there  until 
the  summons  to  enter  answered  the  knock  of  the  deter- 
mined and  obedient  Keating. 

Inside,  Mr.  Daly,  smiling  benignly,  greeted  me  as  one 
greets  a  naughty,  spoiled  child,  and  pulling  me  by  my 
fingers  toward  his  desk,  showed  me  a  contract  outspread : 
"  A  contract  for  one  season,"  he  said,  giving  me  a  light 
tap  on  my  ear.  "  Though  you  must  promise  silence  on  the 
subject,  for  there  would  be  an  outcry  of  favoritism  if  it 
were  known  that  I  broke  a  rule  for  you !  Salary  ?  oh,  the 


332  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

salary  is  only  fifty-five  dollars,  but  we  will  balance  that  by 
my  assistance  in  the  matter  of  wardrobe.  Whenever  you 
have  five  dresses  to  buy  I  will  provide  three,  which  will 
belong  to  me  afterward,  of  course  —  and  —  and  just  sign 
now,  for  I'm  in  a  great  haste,  child,  as  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment to  keep !  Oh,  you  don't  want  any  time  to  think  over 
an  engagement  of  just  one  season!  You  obstinate  little 
block!  and,  by  the  way,  I'll  add  five  dollars  a  week  to 
your  present  salary  for  the  rest  of  the  season,  if  you  sign 
this — yes,  that's  the  right  place !  " 

So  pinched,  so  tormented  were  we  for  money  that 
I  signed  instantly  to  secure  that  immediate  poor  little  five 
dollars  a  week  rise !  Signed  and  went  out  to  find,  await- 
ing me  in  the  letter-box,  a  better  offer  from  Mr.  Lester 
Wallack. 

And  let  me  say  right  here  that  about  the  middle  of  the 
season  I  found  that  some  young  actresses,  who  handed 
me  cards  on  the  stage,  and  in  laced  caps  and  aprons  ap- 
peared as  maids  in  my  service,  were  receiving  for  their 
arduous  duties  a  higher  salary  than  I  received  as  lead- 
ing woman  and  their  play-mistress.  "  It's  a  strange 
world,  my  masters,  a  very  strange  world ! " 


CHAPTER   THIRTY-EIGHTH 

I  Go  to  the  Sea-shore —The  Search  for  a  "Scar"  — I 
Make  a  Study  of  Insanity,  and  Meet  with  Success  in 
«L'  Article  47." 

I  HAD  got  safely  through  my  first  dreaded  vaca- 
tion. I  had  had  two  wonderful  weeks  at  the  seaside, 
where,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Lewis  and  George 
Parkes,  I  had  boarded  with  Mrs.  By  Baker,  whom  we  left 
firmly  convinced  of  our  general  insanity  —  harmless,  but 
quite  hopeless  cases  she  thought  us.  Awed  into  reverent 
silence  I  had  taken  my  first  long  look  at  the  ocean ;  that 
mighty  monster,  object  of  my  day-dreams  all  the  years, 
lay  that  day  outstretched,  smiling,  dimpling,  blinking 
like  the  babe  of  giants,  basking  in  the  sun. 

I  had  inhaled  with  delight  the  briny  coolness  of  its 
breath,  and  with  my  friends  had  engaged  in  wild  romps 
in  its  waves,  all  of  us  arrayed  meanwhile  in  bathing 
dresses  of  hideous  aspect,  made  from  gray  flannel  of  peni- 
tential color  and  scratchiness,  and  most  malignant  mod- 
esty of  cut;  which  were  yet  the  eminently  proper  thing 
at  that  time. 

I  almost  wonder,  looking  at  the  bathing  dresses  of  to- 
day, that  old  Ocean,  who  is  a  lover  of  beauty,  did  not  dash 
the  breath  out  of  us,  and  then  fling  us  high  and  dry  on 
the  beach,  where  the  sands  might  quickly  drift  over  our 
ugly  shells  and  hide  them  from  view. 

All  this  happened,  and  much  more,  before  I  came  to  the 
play  "  L'Article  47,"  famous  for  its  great  French  court 
scene,  and  for  the  madness  of  its  heroine.  I  am  so  ut- 
terly lacking  in  self-confidence  that  it  was  little  short  of 
cruelty  for  Mr.  Daly  to  tell  me,  as  he  did,  that  the  fate  of 
the  play  hung  upon  that  single  scene ;  that  the  production 

333 


334  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

would  be  expensive  and  troublesome,  and  its  success  or 
failure  lay  absolutely  in  my  hands. 

I  turned  white  as  chalk,  with  sheer  fright,  and  could 
scarcely  force  myself  to  speak  audibly,  when  asked  if  I 
could  do  the  part. 

I  answered,  slowly,  that  I  thought  it  unfair  for  Mr. 
Daly  first  to  reduce  me  to  a  state  of  imbecility,  through 
fear,  and  then  ask  me  to  make  a  close  study  of  violent 
madness  —  since  the  two  conditions  were  generally  re- 
versed. 

The  people  laughed,  but  there  was  no  responsive  smile 
on  my  lips,  as  I  entered  upon  a  period  of  mental  misery 
that  only  ended  with  the  triumphant  first  night. 

I  did  all  I  could  do  to  get  at  Cora's  character  and 
standing  before  the  dread  catastrophe  —  feeling  that  her 
madness  must  to  some  extent  be  tinged  by  past  habits  and 
personal  peculiarities.  I  got  a  copy  of  the  French  novel 
—  that  was  not  an  affectation,  but  a  necessity,  as  it  had 
not  then  been  translated,  and  I  was  greatly  impressed 
with  the  minute  description  of  the  destruction  done  by 
the  bullet  George  had  fired  into  her  face.  Portions  of 
the  jaw-bone  had  been  shot  away ;  the  eye,  much  injured, 
had  barely  been  saved,  but  it  was  drawn  and  distorted. 

As  the  woman's  beauty  had  been  her  letter  of  introduc- 
tion to  the  gilded  world,  indeed  had  been  her  sole  capital, 
that  "  scar  "  became  of  tremendous  value  in  the  make-up 
of  the  part,  since  it  would  explain,  and  in  some  scant 
measure  excuse,  her  revengeful  actions. 

Still,  as  the  play  was  done  in  Paris,  the  "  scar  "  was 
almost  ignored  by  that  brilliant  actress,  Madame  Rous- 
seil.  I  had  her  photograph  in  the  part  of  Cora,  and  while 
she  had  a  drapery  passed  low  beneath  her  jaws  to  indi- 
cate some  injury  to  her  neck  or  breast,  her  face  was  ab- 
solutely unblemished. 

To  my  mind  that  weakened  Cora's  case  greatly  —  she 
had  so  much  less  to  resent,  to  brood  over. 

I  took  my  trouble  to  Mr.  Daly,  after  I  had  been  out  to 
the  mad-house  at  Blackwell's  Island,  and  had  gained  some 


WANTED,   A  SCAR  335 

useful  information  from  that  awful  aggregation  of  hu- 
man woe.  He  listened  to  Belot's  description  of  Cora's 
beauty  and  its  wrecking  "  scar  " ;  he  looked  condemningly 
at  the  Rousseil  picture,  and  then  asked  me  what  I  wanted 
to  do. 

I  told  him  I  wanted  a  dreadful  scar  —  then  I  wanted 
to  veil  it  always ;  and  he  broke  in  with,  "  Then  why  have 
the  scar,  if  it  is  to  be  veiled  ?  " 

But  I  hurried  on :  "  My  constant  care  to  keep  it 
covered  will  make  people  imagine  it  a  hundred  times 
worse  than  it  really  is.  Then  when  the  veil  is  torn  off 
by  main  force,  and  they  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  horror, 
they  will  not  wonder  that  her  already-tottering  brain 
should  give  way  under  such  a  blow  to  her  vanity." 

Mr.  Daly  studied  over  the  matter  silently  for  a  few 
moments,  then  he  said :  "  Yes,  you  are  right.  That  scar 
is  a  great  factor  in  the  play ;  go  ahead,  and  make  as  much 
of  it  as  you  can." 

But  right  there  I  came  up  against  an  obstacle.  I  was 
not  good  at  even  an  eccentric  make-up.  I  did  not  know 
how  to  proceed  to  represent  such  a  scar,  as  I  had  in  my 
mind. 

"  Try,"  said  Mr.  Daly.  I  tried,  and  with  tear-reddened 
eyes  announced  my  failure,  but  I  said :  "  I  shall  ask  Mr. 
Lemoyne  to  help  me  —  he  is  the  cleverest  and  most  artis- 
tic maker-tip  of  faces  I  ever  saw." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Daly,  "  get  him  to  try  it  after  rehears- 
al ;  you  have  no  time  to  lose  now !  " 

Only  too  well  I  knew  that;  so  at  once  I  approached 
Mr.  Lemoyne,  and  made  my  wants  known.  I  had  not 
the  slightest  hesitation  in  doing  so,  because,  in  spite  of 
his  sinful  delight  in  playing  jokes  on  me,  he  was  the  kind- 
est, most  warm-hearted  of  comrades;  and  true  to  that 
character  he  at  once  placed  his  services  at  my  disposal, 
though  he  shook  his  head  very  doubtfully  over  the  un- 
dertaking. 

"  You  know  I  never  saw  a  scar  of  such  a  nature  in  my 
life,"  he  said,  as  he  lighted  up  his  dressing-room. 


336 


LIFE   ON    THE   STAGE 


"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  you,  who  can  change  your  nose  or  your 
mouth  or  your  eyes  at  will,  can  make  an  ugly  scar,  easily 
enough,"  and  off  went  hat  and  veil,  and  Mr.  Lemoyne, 
using  my  countenance  for  his  canvas,  began  work. 

He  grew  more  and  more  glum  as  he  wiped  off  and  re- 
painted. One  scar  was  too  small  —  oh,  much  too  small. 
Then  the  shattered  jaw-bone  was  described.  Again  he 
tried.  "  Clara,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  do  it,  because  I  don't 
know  what  I  am  aiming  at !  " 

"  Oh,  go  on !  "  I  pleaded,  "  make  a  hideous  scar,  then 
I'll  learn  how  from  you,  and  do  it  myself." 

He  was  patience  and  kindness  personified,  but  when 
at  last  he  said  he  could  do  no  more,  I  looked  in  the  glass, 
and  —  well,  we  both  laughed  aloud,  in  spite  of  our  chagrin. 
He  said :  "  It  looks  as  though  some  street-boy  had  given 
you  a  swat  in  the  eye  with  a  chunk  of  mud." 

I  mournfully  washed  it  off  and  begged  him  to  try  just 
once  more  —  to-morrow;  and  he  promised  with  a  dole- 
ful air. 

I  had  tears  in  my  eyes  as  I  left  the  theatre,  I  was  so 
horribly  cast  down,  for  if  Mr.  Lemoyne  could  not  make 
up  that  scar  no  one  could.  But  he  used  too  much  black 
—  that  was  a  grave  mistake,  and  —  oh,  dear !  now  what  ? 
Men  were  peeling  up  the  stone  walk.  I  could  not  go 
home  by  the  Sixth  Avenue  car  as  usual,  without  a  lot  of 
bother  and  muddy  shoes.  I  was  just  tired  enough  from 
rehearsal  and  disappointed  enough  to  be  irritated  by  the 
tiniest  contretemps,  and  I  almost  whimpered,  as  I  turned 
the  other  way  and  took  a  Broadway  car.  I  dropped  into 
a  corner.  Three  men  were  on  my  side  of  the  car.  I 
glanced  casually  at  them,  and,  "  Goodness  mercy !  "  said 
1  to  myself,  "  what  are  they  gazing  at  —  they  look  fairly 
frightened?" 

I  followed  the  direction  of  their  eyes,  and,  I  gasped! 
I  felt  goose-flesh  creeping  up  my  arms !  On  the  opposite 
side  sat  a  large  and  handsome  mulatto  woman,  a  small 
basket  of  white  linen  was  on  her  knees,  her  face  was 
turned  toward  the  driver,  and  oh,  good  God !  not  so  long 
ago,  her  throat  had  been  cut  almost  from  ear  to  ear ! 


A   REALISTIC   MAKE-UP  337 

The  scar  was  hideous  —  sickening,  it  made  one  feel 
faint  and  frightened,  but  I  held  my  quivering  nerves  with 
an  iron  hand  —  here  was  my  scar  for  Cora!  I  must  study 
it  while  I  could.  It  had  not  been  well  cared  for,  I  im- 
agine, for  the  edges  of  the  awful  gash  were  puckered,  as 
though  a  gathering  thread  held  them.  There  was  a  queer, 
cord-like  welt  that  looked  white,  while  the  flesh  either 
side  was  red  and  threatening ;  and  then,  as  if  she  felt  my 
eyes,  the  woman  turned  and  faced  me.  A  dull  color  rose 
slowly  over  her  mutilated  throat  and  handsome  face,  and 
she  felt  hastily  for  a  kerchief,  which  was  pinned  at  the 
back  of  her  dress-collar,  and  drew  the  ends  forward  and 
tied  them. 

I  kept  my  eyes  averted  after  that,  but  when  I  left  the 
car  weariness  was  forgotten.  I  stopped  at  a  druggist's 
shop,  bought  sticking-plaster,  gold-beaters'  skin,  and  ab- 
sorbent cotton,  and  with  springy  steps  reached  home,  ma- 
terials in  hand,  model  in  memory  —  I  was  content,  I  had 
found  my  scar  at  last ! 

If  you  are  about  to  accuse  me  of  hardness  of  heart  in 
using,  to  my  own  advantage,  this  poor  woman's  misfort- 
une, don't,  or  at  least  wait  a  moment  first. 

When  I  had  gone  through  the  asylum's  wards  and  the 
doctor  had  called  my  attention  to  this  or  that  exceptional 
case  and  had  tried  to  make  clear  cause  and  effect;  when 
I  had  noted  ophidian's  stealth  in  one  and  tigerish  ferocity 
in  another,  I  suddenly  realized  that  to  single  one  of  these 
unfortunates  out,  then  to  go  before  an  indifferent  crowd 
of  people  and  present  to  them  a  close  copy  of  the  helpless 
afflicted  one,  would  be  an  act  of  atrocious  cruelty.  I 
could  not  do  it !  I  would  instead  seize  upon  some  of  the 
general  symptoms,  common  to  all  mad  people,  and  build 
up  a  mad-scene  with  their  aid,  thus  avoiding  a  cruel  imi- 
tation of  one  of  God's  afflicted. 

So  in  this  scar  I  was  not  going  exactly  to  copy  that 
riven  throat,  but,  with  slender  rolls  of  cotton,  covered  and 
held  by  gold-beaters'  skin,  I  was  going  to  create  dull 
white  welts  with  angry  red  spaces  painted  between  — 


338  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

with  strong  sticking-plaster  attached  to  my  eyelid,  I  was 
going  to  draw  it  from  its  natural  position.  Oh,  I  should 
have  a  rare  scar !  yet  that  poor  woman  might  herself  see 
it  without  suspecting  she  had  given  me  the  idea. 

Oh,  what  a  time  of  misery  it  was,  the  preparation  of 
that  play !  Poor  Mr.  Daly  —  and  poor,  poor  Miss  Mor- 
ris! 

You  see  everything  hung  upon  the  mad-scene.  Yet, 
when  we  came  to  that,  I  simply  stood  still  and  spoke  the 
broken,  disjointed  words. 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  at  night  ?  "  Mr.  Daly 
cried.  "  Act  your  scene,  Miss  Morris." 

Act  it,  in  cold  blood,  there,  in  the  gray,  lifeless  day- 
light? with  a  circle  of  grinning,  sardonic  faces,  ready  to 
be  vastly  amused  over  my  efforts  ?  He  might  better  have 
asked  me  to  deliver  a  polished  address  in  beautiful,  pel- 
lucid Greek,  to  compose  at  command  a  charming  little 
rondeau  in  sparkling  French,  or  a  prayer  in  sonorous 
Latin  —  they  would  have  been  easier  for  me  to  do,  than 
to  gibber,  to  laugh,  to  screech,  to  whisper,  whimper,  rave, 
to  crouch,  crawl,  stride,  fall  to  order  in  street-clothes,  and 
always  with  those  fiendish  "  guyers  "  ready  to  assist  in 
my  undoing.  Yet,  poor  Mr.  Daly,  too !  I  was  sorry  for 
him,  he  had  so  much  at  stake.  It  was  asking  a  good  deal 
of  him  to  trust  his  fate  entirely,  blindly  to  me. 

"  Oh !  "  I  said,  "  I  would  if  I  could  —  do  please  be- 
lieve me !  I  want  to  do  as  you  wish  me  to,  .but,  dear  Mr. 
Daly,  I  can't,  my  blood  is  cold  in  daylight,  I  am  ashamed, 
constrained !  I  cannot  act  then !  " 

"  Well,  give  me  some  faint  idea  of  what  you  are  going 
to  do,"  he  cried,  impatiently. 

"  Dear  goodness !  "  I  groaned,  "  I  am  going  to  try  to 
do  all  sorts  of  things  —  loud  and  quiet,  fast  and  slow, 
close-eyed  cunning,  wide-eyed  terror!  There,  that's  all 
I  can  tell  about  it ! "  and  I  burst  into  harassed  tears. 

He  said  never  another  word,  but  I  used  to  feel  dread- 
fully when,  at  rehearsals,  he  would  rise  and  leave  the 
stage  as  soon  as  we  reached  the  mad-scene. 


AN  ACCIDENT  339 

Then  it  happened  we  could  not  produce  the  play  on 
Monday.  An  old  comedy  was  put  on  for  that  one  night. 
I  was  not  in  it,  and  Mr.  Daly,  seeing  how  near  I  was  to 
the  breaking-point  with  hard  work  and  terror,  tried  to 
give  me  a  bit  of  pleasure.  He  got  tickets  for  my  mother 
and  me,  and  sent  us  to  the  opera  to  hear  Parepa  and 
Wachtel.  I  was  radiant  with  delight;  but,  alas,  when 
did  I  ever  have  such  high  spirits  without  a  swift  dampen- 
ing down.  Elaborately  dressed  as  to  hair,  all  the  rest 
of  my  little  best  was  singularly  plain  for  the  opera.  Still 
I  was  happy  enough  and  greatly  excited  over  our  prom- 
ised treat. 

Mother  and  I  set  out  to  go  to  Miss  Linda  Dietz's  home, 
where  we  were  to  pick  her  up,  and,  under  escort  of  her 
brother,  go  over  to  the  Academy  of  Music.  We  could  not 
afford  a  carriage,  so  we  had  to  take  one  of  the  'busses 
then  in  existence.  Mr.  Daly  had  sent  me,  with  my  box 
tickets,  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  and  with  extreme  careful- 
ness I  placed  them  in  my  pocket,  drawing  on  an  old  pair 
to  wear  down  to  Fifteenth  Street,  where  I  would  don  the 
new  ones  at  Miss  Dietz's  house.  How  I  blessed  my  fore- 
thought later  on! 

Long  skirts  were  worn,  so  were  bustles.  A  man  in 
the  omnibus  was  in  liquor ;  he  sat  opposite  me,  right  by 
the  door.  I  signaled  to  stop.  Mother  passed  out  be- 
fore me  —  I  descended.  The  man's  feet  were  on  my 
dress-skirt.  I  tried  to  pull  it  free  —  he  stupidly  pulled 
in  the  door.  The  'bus  started  —  I  was  flung  to  the  pave- 
ment! 

I  threw  my  head  back  violently  to  save  my  face  from 
the  cobbles,  my  hands  and  one  knee  were  beating  the  cruel 
stones.  Mother  screamed  to  the  driver,  a  gentleman 
sprang  to  the  horses,  stopped  them,  picked  me  up,  and 
even  then  had  to  thrust  the  drunken  man's  feet  from  my 
torn  flounce.  I  had  faintly  whispered :  "  My  glass  —  my 
fan !  "  and  the  gentleman,  placing  me  in  mother's  arms, 
went  out  into  the  street  and  found  them  for  me.  I  sat 
on  a  bench  in  the  Park:  I  was  shaken  and  bruised  and 


340  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

torn  and  muddy,  but  I  would  not  go  home  —  not  I,  I  was 
going  to  hear  Parepa  and  Wachtel ! 

The  gentleman  simply  would  not  leave  us;  he  gave 
me  his  arm  to  Miss  Dietz's  house,  and  I  needed  its  aid, 
for  each  moment  proved  I  was  worse  hurt  than  I  had  at 
first  thought.  There,  however,  when  with  my  heartiest 
thanks  we  parted  from  our  good  Samaritan,  the  Dietz 
family,  with  dismayed  faces,  received  us.  They  were 
kindness  personified.  I  was  sponged  and  arnicaed  and 
plastered  and  sewed  and  brushed,  and  at  last  my  ankle's 
hurt  being  acknowledged,  it  was  tightly  bound.  The  new 
white  gloves  safely  came  forth,  and  "  Dietzie  and  Morrie  " 
(our  nicknames  for  each  other)  set  forth,  with  brother 
Frank  and  mother  in  attendance,  and  arrived  at  the 
crowded  Academy  just  as  the  curtain  rose.  We  went 
quite  wild  with  delight  over  the  old  moss-draped  "  II 
Trovatore."  I  broke  my  only  handsome  fan  —  applaud- 
ing. Suddenly  "  Dietzie  "  saw  me  whiten  —  saw  me  close 
my  eyes.  She  thought  it  was  the  pain  of  my  ankle,  but 
it  was  a  sudden  memory  of  Cora  and  the  mad-scene.  As 
the  whirlwind  of  applause  roared  about  me,  I  sickened 
with  a  mortal  terror  of  the  ordeal  awaiting  me.  I  hope 
I  may  always  thrust  Satan  behind  me  with  the  whole- 
hearted force  I  used  in  thrusting  "  LArticle  47  "  behind 
me  on  that  occasion.  I  returned  to  "  II  Trovatore."  I 
enjoyed  each  liquid  jewrel  of  a  note,  helped  to  raise  the 
roof,  afterward  declined  supper,  hastened  home,  romped 
my  dog,  and  put  her  to  bed.  Got  into  a  dressing-gown, 
locked  myself  in  my  room,  and  had  it  out  with  Cora,  from 
A  to  Z.  Tried  this  walk  and  that  crouch ;  read  this  way 
and  that  way.  Found  the  exact  moment  when  her  mind 
began  to  cloud,  to  waver,  to  recover,  to  break  finally  and 
irretrievably.  Determined  positively  just  where  I  should 
be  at  certain  times ;  allowed  a  margin  for  the  impulse  or 
inspiration  of  the  moment,  and  at  last,  with  the  character 
crystal-clear  before  me,  I  ended  my  work  and  my  vigil. 

After  turning  out  the  gas  I  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  at  the  sky.  The  stars  had  gone  in ;  low  down  in 


WHAT    THE   -HOUSE"   THINKS     341 

the  east  a  faint,  faint  band  of  pink  held  earth  and  sky 
together.  I  was  calm  and  quite  ready  to  rest.  All  my 
uncertainty  was  at  an  end.  What  the  public  would  do 
I  could  not  know ;  what  I  would  do  was  clear  and  plain 
before  me  at  last. 

Poor  Mr.  Daly !  I  sighed,  for  I  knew  his  anxiety  and 
uneasiness  were  not  allayed.  Bertie,  tired  of  waiting  for 
me,  had  curled  her  loving  little  body  up  in  my  pillow  —  a 
distinct  breach  of  family  discipline.  A  few  moments  later, 
feeling  her  small  tail  beating  a  blissful  tattoo  on  my  feet, 
I  muttered,  laughingly :  "  A  little  prayer,  a  little  dog, 
and  a  little  rest,"  and  so  sank  into  the  sound  sleep  I  so 
desperately  needed,  in  preparation  for  the  ever-to-be- 
dreaded  first  night  of  "  L' Article  47  "  of  the  French 
Penal  Code. 

The  house  was  packed.  Well-known  people  were  seen 
all  through  the  theatre.  Act  I.  represented  the  French 
Court  with  a  trial  in  full  swing  —  it  played  for  one  hour, 
lacking  three  minutes.  I  was  on  the  stage  ten  minutes 
only.  I  was  told  Mr.  Daly  shook  his  head  violently  at 
the  curtain's  fall. 

The  next  act  I  was  not  in  at  all,  but  it  dragged,  and 
when  that  was  over  Mr.  Daly's  peculiar  test  of  public 
feeling  showed  the  presence  of  disappointment.  Like 
many  other  managers,  he  often  placed  men  here  and  there 
to  listen  to  the  comments  made  by  his  patrons,  but  his 
quickest,  surest  way  of  judging  the  effect  a  new  play  was 
making,  was  by  watching  and  listening  at  the  very  mo- 
ment of  the  curtain's  fall.  If  the  people  instantly  turned 
to  one  another  in  eager  speech,  and  a  bee-like  hum  of 
conversation  arose,  he  nodded  his  head  with  pleased  sat- 
isfaction —  he  knew  they  were  saying,  "  How  lovely ! " 
"  That  was  a  fine  effect !  "  "  We've  had  nothing  better  for 
a  long  time !  "  "  It's  just  divine !  "  "  It's  great !  "  etc. 

When  they  spoke  slowly  and  briefly,  he  shook  his  head ; 
but  when  they  sat  still  and  gazed  steadily  straight  ahead 
of  them,  he  called  a  new  play  for  rehearsal  next  morning. 

That  second  act  had  made  him  shake  his  head;    the 


342  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

third  came  on  with  Cora's  rejected  love,  her  strangling 
tears  of  self-pity,  her  whirlwind  of  passion,  ending  with 
that  frantic  and  incredible  threat.  The  people  caught  at 
it!  I  suppose  the  swiftness  of  its  action,  the  heat  and 
fury  following  so  close  upon  the  two  slow,  dull  acts, 
pleased  and  aroused  them.  The  curtain  went  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  call  after  call,  and  when  at  last  it 
was  allowed  to  remain  down,  myriads  of  bees  might  have 
been  swarming  in  front,  and  Mr.  Daly,  nodding  and  smil- 
ing as  I  rushed  past  on  my  way  to  change  my  gown,  said : 
"  Hear  'em  —  hear  the  bees  buzz  —  that's  good !  Now 
if  only  you " 

I  waited  not  for  the  rest  —  too  well  I  knew  how  to 
complete  the  sentence :  "  If  only  I  could  safely  hive  those 
swarming  bees  "  for  him.  Could  I  ?  Oh,  could  I  ?  for 
the  moment  was  at  hand,  the  "  mad-scene,"  so  dreaded, 
so  feared ! 

Three  things  I  had  counted  upon  to  help  my  effects: 
the  crouch,  the  laugh,  the  scar.  The  crouch  had  just  done 
splendid  service  at  the  end  of  Act  III.  Would  the  other 
two  be  as  effective? 

I  went  up  to  the  stage;  I  was  to  be  discovered  lying 
on  a  lounge.  Miss  Davenport,  magnificently  handsome 
in  person  and  gown,  beside  me;  the  others  at  the  gam- 
bling-table. As  she  took  my  hand  she  gave  a  sharp  little 
cry :  "  Heavens !  "  she  said,  "  you  might  be  dead,  you 
are  like  ice !  "  She  touched  my  forehead,  asking,  "  Are 
you  ill  ?  Why,  your  head  is  burning,  hot !  hot !  hot !  Mr. 
Daly,  just  touch  her  hands  and  head !  " 

He  looked  down  on  me  in  silence ;  two  pairs  of  fright- 
ened eyes  met;  he  gave  a  groan;  threw  out  his  hands 
helplessly ;  stepped  off  the  stage,  and  signaled  the  curtain 
up  on  what  was  to  make  or  break  the  play  —  and  he  knew 
no  more  what  to  expect  than  did  one  of  the  ushers  out 
in  front. 

Under  cover  of  the  music  and  the  applause  accompany- 
ing the  curtain's  rise,  I  caught  myself  muttering,  vaguely : 
"  The  power  and  the  glory  —  the  power  and  the  glory," 


A  DRAMATIC   TRIUMPH          343 

and  knew  that  involuntarily  I  was  reaching  out  for  the 
old  staff  on  which  I  had  leaned  so  many  times  before. 

The  scene  was  on  —  the  laughing  cynicism  of  the 
Baroness  —  the  chatter  of  the  players  —  then,  at  last, 
George  and  Cora  were  alone ! 

My  terror  had  slipped  from  me  like  a  garment,  I  was 
in  the  play  once  more;  save  for  just  one  awful  moment! 
George  had  torn  the  veil  from  my  disfigured  face,  and, 
casting  in  my  teeth  the  accusation :  "  You  are  mad !  "  had 
left  me  there  alone,  standing,  stunned  by  the  word !  That 
was  the  moment  of  actual  dethronement  of  reason,  and, 
as  I  slowly,  stupidly  turned  my  eyes,  I  saw  Mr.  Daly's 
white  face  thrust  forward  eagerly.  His  gray  eyes  wide 
and  glowing,  his  thin  hand  tightly  grasping  the  lapel  of 
his  coat,  his  whole  being  expressing  the  very  anguish  of 
anxiety ! 

One  moment  I  felt  I  was  lost !  I  had  been  dragged  out 
of  the  play  at  the  crucial  moment !  I  clasped  my  hands 
across  my  eyes :  "  The  kingdom  and  the  power !  "  I 
groaned  —  I  faced  the  other  way !  The  low,  eerie  music 
caught  my  attention  and  awakened  my  imagination,  in 
another  second  I  was  as  mad  as  a  March  hare.  The  first 
time  the  low,  gibbering  laugh  swelled  into  the  wild,  long- 
sustained  shrieking  ha!  ha!  a  voice  said,  low  and  clear: 
"  Oh,  dear  God !  " 

Yet  I  who  had  heard  the  genuine  laugh  at  the  mad- 
house knew  this  to  be  but  a  poor,  tame,  soulless  thing, 
compared  to  that  Hecate-like  distillation  —  the  very  es- 
sence of  madness,  that  ran  through  that  real  gibber  of 
laughter. 

Yet  it  was  enough.  At  the  end  there  came  to  me  one 
of  those  moments  God  grants  now  and  then  as  a  reward 
for  long  thirst,  way-weariness,  and  heart-sickness  pa- 
tiently borne !  One  of  those  foolishly  divine  moments  you 
stand  with  the  gods  and,  like  them,  are  young  and  fair 
and  powerful !  Your  very  nerves  thrill  harmonious,  like 
harp-strings  attune  —  your  blood  courses  like  quicksilver 
for  swiftness,  like  wine  for  warmth,  and  on  that  fair  peak 


344  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

of  Triumph,  where  one  tarries  but  by  moments,  there  is 
no  knowledge  of  sin  or  suffering,  of  death  or  hate ;  there 
is  only  sunshine,  the  sunshine  of  success!  love  for  all 
those  creatures  who  turn  smiling  faces  on  you,  who  hold 
their  hands  to  you  with  joyous  cries ! 

There  is  no  question  of  deserts,  of  qualifications !  No 
analysis,  no  criticism  then  —  they  follow  later !  That  is 
just  a  moment  of  delicious  madness ;  and  to  distinguish 
it  from  other  frenzies  it  is  called  —  a  Dramatic  Triumph ! 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-NINTH 

I  Am  too  Dull  to  Understand  a  Premonition  —  By  Mr. 
Daly's  Side  I  See  the  Destruction  of  the  Fifth  Avenue 
Theatre  by  Fire. 

HOW  shall  I  call  that  strange  influence  that  dumbly 
tries  to  warn,  to  prepare  ? 
Many  of  us  have  had  experience  of  this  name- 
less something  whose  efforts  are  but  rarely  heeded.    The 
something  that  one  morning  suddenly  fills  the  mind  with 
thoughts  of  some  friend  of  the  far  past,  who  is  almost 
entirely  forgotten  —  persistent  thoughts  not  to  be  shaken 
off. 

You  speak  of  the  matter,  and  your  family  exclaim: 
"  What  on  earth  ever  brought  him  to  your  mind  ?  "  and 
that  night  you  either  hear  of  the  old  friend's  death  or  he 
sends  you  a  letter  from  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

I  had  an  acquaintance  who  one  day  found  herself  com- 
pelled, as  it  were,  to  talk  of  thefts,  of  remarkable  rob- 
beries. She  seemed  unable  to  turn  her  mind  to  any  other 
subject.  If  she  looked  at  a  lock,  she  thought  how  easy  it 
would  be  to  force  it;  at  a  window,  how  readily  a  man 
might  enter  it.  Her  people  laughed  and  told  her  she 
was  hoodooed;  but  next  day  she  was  robbed  of  every 
jewel  she  had  in  the  world.  What  was  it  that  was  try- 
ing dumbly  to  warn  her? 

It  was  on  the  ist  of  January  that  my  mind  became  sub- 
ject to  one  of  those  outside  seizures.  The  snow  was 
banked  high  in  the  streets  —  had  been  so  for  days.  The 
unexpected  sale  of  the  house  in  Twenty-first  Street  had 
forced  me  to  new  quarters;  I  was  at  that  moment  in 
Twenty-fourth  Street.  As  I  raised  my  head  from  kissing 
my  mother  a  Happy  New  Year,  I  remarked :  "  The 

345 


346  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

streets  are  in  a  terrible  condition  for  a  great  fire  —  are 
they  not?" 

"  Let  us  hope  there  won't  be  a  great  fire,"  replied 
mother,  and  began  to  pour  out  the  coffee. 

A  little  later  the  French  lady  coming  in,  to  pass  the 
compliments  of  the  day,  I  was  immediately  moved  to 
ask  her  if  our  fire  service  here  was  not  superior  to  that 
of  Paris  ?  And  I  was  greatly  pleased  at  her  joyous  acqui- 
escence, until  I  discovered  that  her  remarks  had  reference 
to  our  larger  fireplaces  —  there  are  always  certain  draw- 
backs accompanying  a  foreign  landlady. 

Then  I  went  to  the  matinee  —  for,  lo,  the  poor  actress 
always  does  double  work  on  days  of  festivity  for  the  rest 
of  the  world,  and  all  occasions  of  legalized  feasting  find 
her  eating  "  a  cold  bite."  We  were  doing  a  play  called 
"  False  Shame,"  known  in  England  as  "  The  White 
Feather,"  a  very  light  three-act  play.  The  dresses  and 
scenery  were  beautiful ;  Mr.  Daly  provided  me  with  one 
gown  —  a  combination  of  sapphire-blue  velvet  and 
Pompadour  brocade  that  came  within  an  ace  of  making 
me  look  handsome,  like  the  rest. 

He  remarked  upon  its  effect,  and  I  told  him  I  felt 
compelled  to  look  well,  since  I  had  nothing  else  to  do; 
but  the  day  had  gone  by  when  such  remarks  could  anger 
him.  He  laughed  good-humoredly  and  said :  "  All  the 
same,  Miss,  that  scene  at  the  organ  is  mighty  pretty  and 
taking,  too." 

For,  look  you,  in  the  theatre  "  a  little  knowledge  is  not 
a  dangerous  thing."  Complete  knowledge  is,  of  course, 
preferable;  but,  ah,  how  far  a  very  little  will  go,  and 
here  was  my  poor  tum-tumming,  "  one  and  two  and  three 
and"  filling  Mr.  Daly's  very  soul  with  joy,  because  for- 
sooth, in  a  lovely  old  English  interior,  all  draped  in 
Christmas  greens,  filled  with  carved-wood  furniture,  big 
logs  burning  in  an  enormous  fireplace,  wax  candles  in 
brass  sconces,  two  girls  are  at  the  organ  in  dinner  dress, 
who,  nervously  anxious  about  a  New  Year  carol,  with 
which  they  are  going  to  surprise  their  guests  at  mid-night> 
seize  the  moment  before  dinner  to  try  said  carol  over. 


A   HOTEL  FIRE  347 

Miss  Davenport,  regal  in  satin,  stood,  music  in  hand, 
the  fire-light  on  her  handsome  face.  I,  seated  at  the  organ 
in  my  precious  blue  and  brocade,  played  the  accompani- 
ment, and  sang  alto,  and,  though  terror  over  this  simple 
bit  of  work  brought  me  to  the  verge  of  nervous  prostra- 
tion, the  scene  was,  from  the  front,  like  a  stolen  peep  into 
some  beautiful  private  home,  and  it  brought  an  astonish- 
ing amount  of  applause.  But  if  I  had  not  "  one  two 
threed  "  in  Cincinnati  on  that  grinning  old  piano,  where 
would  the  organ-scene  have  been?  Ah,  a  little  knowl- 
edge, if  spread  ever  so  thin  by  a  master  hand  like  Mr. 
Daly's,  will  prove  useful. 

So  don't  refuse  to  learn  a  little  because  you  fear  you 
cannot  afford  to  study  thoroughly  —  if  you  are  an  actress. 

While  I  was  sitting  through  a  long  wait  that  day  I 
fell  into  a  brown  study.  The  theatre  dresser,  who  was 
very  fond  of  me  and  gave  me  every  spare  moment  of  her 
time,  came  into  my  room  and  twice  addressed  me  before 
I  came  out  of  my  reverie. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  thinking  of,  Miss  Clara?  " 
she  asked,  and  I  answered  with  another  question: 
"  Mary,  were  you  ever  in  a  great  fire  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said;  "were  you?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered ;  "  I  have  been  twice  burned  out 
from  shelter  at  dead  of  night,"  and  I  told  her  of  that  hotel 
fire  at  3  A.M.,  where  there  was  but  one  stairway  to  the 
street ;  of  the  mad  brutality  of  the  men ;  of  the  terrible 
and  the  ludicrous  scenes ;  of  my  own  escape,  quite  alone, 
in  bare  feet  and  one  white  garment;  of  my  standing 
across  a  leaking  hose,  while  a  strange  man  pulled  my 
right  arm,  frantically  crying,  "  You  come  with  me !  my 
mother's  got  a  blanket  to  wrap  you  up  in ! "  and  Mr. 
Ellsler,  who  had  just  arrived,  seized  my  left  arm,  drag- 
ging me  his  way  and  shouting,  "  Come  over  to  the  house 
and  get  to  bed  quick,  before  you  die  of  exposure !  "  while 
I  felt  the  water  spraying  my  forlornly  shivering  shins, 
and  was  more  nearly  torn  asunder  than  was  ever  the 
Solomon  baby. 


348  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

"  Oh,  my !  "  said  Mary,  "  how  dreadful !  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  musingly,  "  and  what  a  fire  this  place 
would  make  —  all  these  partitions  of  painted  pine ! " 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  protested  Mary. 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  you  know  that's  what  theatres  are 
built  for  —  to  burn  is  their  natural  end !  "  and  then  I  was 
called,  and  went  up-stairs  to  saunter  through  another  act 
of  the  mild  little  play. 

I  owned  but  little  jewelry  then,  but  what  I  had  was 
noticeably  good.  My  rings,  including  the  handsome  pearl 
one  Mr.  Daly  had  given  me  as  a  souvenir  of  "  47,"  I  had 
to  remove  from  my  fingers  for  the  last  act,  and  when  the 
curtain  had  fallen  and  I  had  rushed  myself  into  street 
garments,  and  was  leaving  the  dressing-room  in  haste  to 
join  my  waiting  mother  at  dinner,  Mary  called  to  me: 
"  Miss  Clara,  you  are  leaving  your  diamond  rings  —  but 
never  mind,"  she  picked  them  up  and  dropped  them,  one 
by  one,  into  a  little  box :  "  I'll  lock  the  door  myself,  you 
run  along,  the  rings  will  be  safe  enough  —  run ! "  and 
the  answering  words  I  heard  swiftly  leaving  my  lips  were 
absolutely  involuntary  and  dictated  by  no  thought  of 
mine.  They  were: 

"  Yes,  as  far  as  theft  is  concerned,  they  are  safe  enough, 
but  in  case  of  fire  ?  Better  give  them  to  me,  Mary.  Oh !  " 
for  the  girl  had  dropped  one  on  the  floor.  It  was  a  bit 
of  Oriental  enamel  set  about  with  tiny  sparks  of  dia- 
monds. I  put  the  others  on,  but  would  not  wait  for  her 
to  pick  up  the  rolling  truant,  and  away  I  went. 

At  the  corner  of  Sixth  Avenue  and  Twenty-fourth 
Street  I  came  to  a  stand-still  before  two  great  snow- 
banks, and  I  thought  again  what  they  might  mean  in  case 
of  a  fire. 

I  reached  home  at  a  brisk  pace,  ran  up-stairs,  threw  off 
my  cloak,  and  had  drawn  my  dress-waist  half  off,  when, 
without  a  preliminary  knock,  the  door  was  flung  open 
and  my  landlord,  Mr.  Bardin,  white  with  the  excitement 
that  had  wiped  out  his  knowledge  of  English,  stood  ges- 
ticulating wildly  and  hurling  French  at  me  in  seething 


FIFTH   AVENUE   THEATRE   FIRE    349 

masses.  I  caught  "  le  feu!"  " le  feu!"  many  times  re- 
peated; then  "  le  theatre!"  and  with  a  cry  I  seized  his 
arm  and  shook  him. 

"  What  is  it?  "  I  cried,  "  do  you  mean  fire?  " 
He  nodded,  and  again  came  the  words :  "  le  theatre! " 
"  Good  heaven  and  earth !  you  don't  mean  my  theatre, 
do  you  ?  "  and  then  two  great  horses,  hurling  a  fire-en- 
gine around  the  corner  into  our  street  made  swift  and 
terrifying  answer.  With  a  piercing  cry  I  caught  up  my 
cloak,  and  throwing  off  somebody's  restraining  hands  I 
dashed  down-stairs  and  into  the  street,  racing  like  mad, 
giving  sobbing  cries,  and  utterly  unconscious  for  over 
two  blocks'  space  that  my  waist  was  unclosed  and  my 
naked  throat  and  chest  were  bare  to  the  wintry  wind. 

At  the  corner  of  the  street  at  Sixth  Avenue  I  wrung 
my  hands  in  anguish,  crying,  "  Oh,  dear  God !  I  knew 
it !  I  knew  it !  "  for  there,  stalled  in  the  snow,  was  the 
engine,  so  desperately  needed  a  little  further  on!  And 
as  I  resumed  my  run  I  said  to  myself :  "  What  is  it  that 
has  tried  so  hard  to  tell  me  —  to  warn  me  ?  Tried  all  the 
day  —  and  I  would  not  understand  —  and  now  it's  too 
late!" 

Why  I  ran  I  do  not  know  —  it  was  not  curiosity.  I 
felt,  somehow,  that  if  I  could  get  there  in  time  I  might 
do  something  —  God  knows  what !  As  I  neared  the  the- 
atre the  crowd  grew  more  dense,  yet  to  my  gasping: 
"  Please,  oh,  please !  "  an  answer  came  in  a  quick  moving 
aside  to  let  pass  the  woman  with  the  white,  tear-wet  face. 

I  broke  through  the  cordon  and  was  making  for  the  stage- 
door,  when  a  rough  hand  caught  me  by  the  shoulder. 
There  was  an  oath,  and  I  was  fairly  hurled  back  toward 
the  safety  line. 

"  Oh,  let  me  alone ! "  I  cried,  "  I  want  to  go  to  my 
room !  It  will  take  me  but  a  moment !  " 

Again  the  rough  hand  reached  out  for  me,  when  a 
strange  man  threw  his  arm  in  front  of  me  protectingly : 

II  Take  care  what  you're  about !  "  he  said.     "  Be  a  little 
gentle  —  she  has  a  right  close  to  the  line,  she's  one  of  the 
company !    Can't  you  see  ?  " 


350  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

"Oh,"  grunted  the  policeman,  "well,  I  didn't  know, 
and  I  couldn't  let  her  kill  herself !  " 

"  No,"  said  the  stranger,  "  but  you  had  no  call  to  pitch 
her  about  as  you  did !  "  And  just  then  a  long,  thin  hand 
caught  mine,  and  Mr.  Daly's  voice  said :  "  Come  here, 
child !  "  and  he  led  me  across  the  street  and  up  some  steps, 
and  there,  opposite  the  burning  building,  I  could  realize 
the  madness  of  my  act  in  trying  to  enter.  The  front  of 
the  building  stood  firm,  but  beyond  it,  within,  all  was 
seething  flame.  It  was  like  some  magnificent  spectacular 
production  —  some  Satanic  pantomime  and  ballet,  and 
every  now  and  then  a  whirling  flame,  crowned  with  myr- 
iad sparks,  sprang  madly  up  into  the  very  sky  like  some 
devilish  premiere  danseuse ;  while  the  lesser  fiends  joined 
hands  and  circled  frenziedly  below. 

Mr.  Daly  never  spoke  a  word.  He  had  not  released 
my  fingers,  and  so  we  stood,  hand  in  hand,  watching 
silently  over  the  torment  of  his  beloved  theatre  —  the 
destruction  of  his  gathered  treasures.  I  looked  up  at  him. 
His  face  gleamed  white  in  the  firelight;  his  eyes  were 
wide  and  strained;  his  fingers,  icy  cold,  never  lessened 
their  clinching  grasp  on  mine.  Then  came  the  warning 
cry  firemen  are  apt  to  give  when  they  know  the  roof  is 
going.  I  had  heard  it  often,  and  understood  that  and  their 
retreating  movement.  Mr.  Daly  did  not,  and  when,  with 
a  crackling  crash,  the  whole  roof  fell  into  the  roaring 
depths,  his  hand,  his  body,  relaxed  suddenly;  a  sort  of 
sobbing  groan  escaped  his  pale  lips.  But  when  the  col- 
umn of  glowing  sparks  flew  high  into  the  air  he  turned 
away  with  a  shiver  and  gave  not  one  other  look  at  the 
destroyed  building. 

Not  one  word  was  spoken  on  the  subject.  Glancing 
down  he  noticed  I  had  no  rubbers  on  and  that  streams  of 
water  were  running  in  the  street : 

"  Go  home,  child !  "  he  said,  speaking  quickly  and  most 
kindly.  A  crowd  of  reporters  came  up  to  him :  "  Yes," 
he  said,  "in  one  moment,  gentlemen,"  then  to  me: 
"  Hurry  home,  get  something  to  eat  —  you  could  have  had 
no  dinner ! " 


THE  SEASON  SUDDENLY  ENDS    351 

He  gave  one  heavy  sigh,  and  added :  "  I'm  glad  you 
were  with  me,  it  would  have  been  worse  alone."  He 
pushed  me  gently  from  him.  As  I  started  down  the  street 
he  called :  "  I'll  send  you  word  some  time  to-night  what 
we're  to  do." 

I  left  him  to  the  reporters ;  I  had  not  spoken  one  word 
from  the  moment  I  had  begged  to  enter  my  dressing-room. 
I  felt  strangely  sad  and  forlorn  as  I  dropped,  draggled 
and  tired,  into'  a  chair.  I  said  to  mother :  "  It's  gone ! 
the  only  theatre  in  New  York  whose  door  was  not  barred 
against  me,  and  —  I  —  I  think  that  at  this  moment  I  know 
just  how  a  dog  feels  who  has  lost  a  loved  master,"  and, 
dropping  my  face  upon  my  hands,  I  wept  long  over  the 
destruction  of  my  first  dramatic  home  in  New  York,  the 
little  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre. 


CHAPTER  FORTIETH 

We  Become  u  Barn-stormers,"  and  Return  to  Open  the 
New  Theatre  —  Our  Astonishing  Misunderstanding  of 
u  Alixe,"  which  Proves  a  Great  Triumph. 

MY  first  thought  on  awaking  the  next  morning 
was  one  of  dismay,  on  recalling  the  destruction 
of  the  little  "  P.H.C."  —  that  being  the  actors 
contraction  of  Mr.  Daly's  somewhat  grandiloquent  "  Par- 
lor Home  of  Comedy."    My  grief  over  the  burning  of  the 
pretty  toy  theatre  was  very  real,  and  I  would  have  been 
an  astonished  young  woman  had  anyone  prophesied  that 
for  me,  personally,  the  disaster  was  to  prove  a  piece  of  un- 
qualified good  luck. 

And,  by  the  way,  that  expression  "  good  luck  "  reminds 
me  of  one  of  the  incidents  of  the  fire.  That  morning, 
when  the  firemen  went  to  the  ruins  to  examine  into  the 
state  of  the  standing  front  wall,  they  looked  upward,  and 
there,  all  alone,  on  the  burned  and  blackened  space,  smil- 
ing down  in  friendly  fashion  upon  them,  was  the  picture 
of  Clara  Morris  —  a  bit  charred  as  to  frame  and  smoky 
as  to  glass,  but  the  photograph  (one  taken  by  Kurtz), 
absolutely  uninjured,  being  the  one  and  only  thing  saved 
from  the  ruins.  The  firemen  very  naturally  wanted  it 
for  their  engine-house,  and  Mr.  Daly  said  that  for  it 
many  were  claiming,  pleading,  demanding,  bartering  — 
but  all  in  vain.  His  superstition  was  aroused.  Not  for 
anything  in  the  world,  he  cried,  would  he  part  from  his 
"  luck,"  as  he  ever  after  called  the  rescued  picture.  So 
there  again  appeared  the  malice  of  inanimate  things,  for 
how  else  could  one  account  for  the  plunging  of  that  line, 
the  entire  length  of  the  staircase,  of  splendidly  framed 
pictures  of  loveliness,  into  the  fiery  depths,  while  the 

352 


BARN-STORMING  353 

plain  and  unimportant  one  kept  its  place  in  calm  secur- 
ity? 

Mr.  Daly  had  a  very  expensive  company  on  his  hands. 
He  had  amazed  other  managers  by  his  "  corner  "  on  lead- 
ing men.  With  three  already  in  his  company  he  had  not 
hesitated  to  draw  on  Boston  for  Harry  Crisp,  and  on 
Philadelphia  for  Mr.  Louis  James;  and  when  he  added 
such  names  as  George  Clark,  Daniel  Harkins,  George 
DeVere,  James  Lewis,  William  Lemoyne,  William  Dav- 
idge,  A.  Whiting,  Owen  Fawcett,  George  Parkes,  F. 
Burnett,  H.  Bascombe,  J.  Beekman,  Charles  Fisher, 
George  Gilbert,  etc.,  one  can  readily  understand  that  the 
salary  of  the  men  alone  must  have  made  quite  an  item 
in  the  week's  expenses,  and  added  to  the  sharp  necessity 
of  getting  us  to  work  as  quickly  as  possible.  And  in  act- 
ual truth  the  ruins  of  the  little  theatre  were  not  yet  cold 
when  Mr.  Daly  had,  by  wire,  secured  a  week  for  us,  di- 
vided between  Syracuse  and  Albany,  and  we  were  scramb- 
ling dresses  together  and  buying  new  toilet  articles  — 
rouge,  powders,  and  pomades,  and  transforming  ourselves 
into  "  strolling  players  " ;  though,  sooth  to  say,  there  was 
precious  little  "  strolling "  done  after  we  started,  for 
we  were  all  rushing  for  rooms,  for  food,  for  trains, 
through  a  blizzard  that  was  giving  us  plenty  of  delay- 
ing snow-drifts.  And  while  the  company  was  cheerfully 
"barn-storming,"  Mr.  Daly  was  doing  his  best  to  find 
shelter  for  us  in  New  York,  engaging  the  little  one-time 
church  on  Broadway.  He  had  painters,  paper-hangers, 
scrub-women,  upholsterers,  climbing  over  one  another  in 
their  frantic  efforts  to  do  all  he  desired  to  have  done  in 
about  one-half  the  regulation  time  allowed  for  such  work ; 
and  while  they  toiled  day  and  night  with  much  noise  and 
great  demonstration  of  haste,  he  sat  statue-still  in  a  far 
corner,  mentally  reviewing  every  manuscript  in  his  pos- 
session, searching  eagerly  for  the  one  that  most  nearly 
answered  to  the  needs  of  the  moment.  Namely,  a  play 
that  required  a  strong  cast  of  characters  (he  had  plenty 
of  men  and  women),  little  preparation,  and  scanty  scen- 
ery (since  he  was  short  of  both  time  and  money).  And, 


354  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

finding  "  Alixe,"  then  known  as  "  The  Countess  de 
Somerive,"  he  stopped  short.  The  action  of  the  play  cov- 
ered but  one  day  —  that  was  promising.  There  were  but 
three  acts  —  good;  but  two  scenes  —  better!  A  con- 
ventional chateau  garden-terrace  for  one  act,  and  a  simply 
elegant  morning-room  or  stately  drawing-room,  accord- 
ing to  managerial  taste,  could  stand  for  the  other  two 
acts.  A  strong  and  dramatic  work  —  requiring  the  paint- 
ing of  but  two  scenes.  The  play  was  found !  The  com- 
pany was  ordered  home  to  rehearse  it. 

Now  at  that  time,  to  my  own  great  anxiety,  I  was  by 
way  of  standing  on  very  dangerous  ground.  The  public 
had  favored  me  almost  extravagantly  from  the  very  first 
performance  of  Anne  Sylvester,  but  the  critics,  at  least 
the  most  important  two,  seemed  to  praise  my  efforts 
with  a  certain  unwilling  drag  of  the  pen.  Nearly  all  their 
kind  words  had  the  sweetness  squeezed  out  of  them  be- 
tween "  buts  "  and  "  ifs,"  and,  most  wounding  of  all,  my 
actual  work  was  less  often  criticized  than  were  my  per- 
sonal defects.  Occasionally  an  actress's  work  may  be  too 
good  for  her  own  welfare.  You  doubt  that  ?  Yet  I  know 
an  actress,  still  in  harness,  who  in  her  lovely  prime  made 
so  great  a  hit,  in  the  part  of  an  adventuress,  that  she  has 
had  nothing  else  to  act  since.  Whenever  a  play  was  pro- 
duced with  such  a  character  in  it,  she  was  sent  for.  But 
if  she  was  proposed  for  a  loyal  wife,  a  gentle  sweetheart, 
a  modern  heroine,  the  quick  response  invariably  was: 
"  Oh,  she  can't  play  anything  but  the  adventuress." 

There  is  nothing  more  fatal  to  the  artistic  value,  to  the 
future  welfare  of  a  young  player,  than  to  be  known  as 
"  a  one-part  actress  " ;  yet  that  was  the  very  danger  that 
was  threatening  me  at  the  time  of  the  burning  of  the 
home  theatre.  Following  other  parts  known  as  strong, 
Jezebel,  the  half-breed  East  Indian,  a  velvet-footed 
treachery  and  twice  would-be  murderess,  and  Cora,  the 
quadroon  mad-woman,  were  in  a  fair  way  to  injure  me 
greatly.  Already  one  paper  had  said :  "  Miss  Morris 
has  a  strange,  intuitive  comprehension  of  these  creatures 
of  mixed  blood." 


RETURNING   TO   NEW   YORK    355 

But  worse  than  that,  the  most  powerful  of  the  two  crit- 
ics I  dreaded  had  said  one  morning :  "  Miss  Morris 
played  with  care  and  much  feeling.  The  audience  wept 
copiously  "  (to  anyone  who  has  long  read  the  great  critic, 
that  word  "  copiously  "  is  tantamount  to  his  full  signa- 
ture, so  persistently  does  he  use  it),  "  but  her  performance 
was  flecked  with  those  tigerish  gleams  that  seem  to  be  a 
part  of  her  method.  She  will  probably  find  difficulty  in 
equaling  in  any  other  line  her  success  as  Cora." 

No  animal  had  ever  a  keener  sense  of  approaching  dan- 
ger than  I  had,  when  my  professional  welfare  was  threat- 
ened, and  these  small  straws  told  me  plainly  which  way 
the  wind  was  beginning  to  blow,  and  now,  looking  back, 
I  am  convinced  that  just  one  more  "  tigerish  part "  at 
that  time  would  have  meant  artistic  ruin  to  me,  for,  fig- 
uratively speaking,  pens  were  already  dipped  to  write 
me  down  "  a  one-part  actress." 

Then,  one  bitter  cold  day  we  returned  to  New  York 
and  Mr.  Daly,  sending  for  me,  said  he  must  ask  a  favor  of 
me.  A  form  of  speech  that  literally  made  me  "  sit  up 
straight  "  —  yes,  and  gasp,  too,  with  astonishment.  With 
a  regretful  sigh  he  went  on :  "  I  suppose  you  know  you 
are  a  strong  attraction  ?  " 

I  smiled  broadly  at  his  evident  disapproval  of  such 
knowledge  on  my  part,  and  he  continued :  "  But  in  this 
play  there  is  no  part  for  you  —  yet  I  greatly  need  all  my 
strongest  people  in  this  first  cast.  Of  course  as  far  as 
ability  is  concerned  you  could  play  the  Countess  and  make 
a  hit,  but  she's  too  old  —  so  you'll  not  play  the  mother  to 
marriageable  daughters  under  my  management,  even  in 
an  emergency.  Now  I  have  Miss  Morant,  Miss  Daven- 
port and  Miss  Dietz,  but  —  but  I  must  have  your  name, 
too." 

I  nodded  vigorously  —  I  understood.  And  having 
seen  the  play  in  Paris,  where  it  was  one  of  the  three  pieces 
offered  for  an  evening's  programme,  I  mentally  reviewed 
the  cast  and  presently  made  answer,  cheerfully  and 
honestly:  "Oh,  yes!  I  see  —  it's  that  —  'er  —  Aline? 


356 


LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 


Justine ?  No,  no !  Claudine?  that's  the  name  of  the  maid. 
You  want  me  to  go  on  for  that  ?  All  right !  anything  to 
help!" 

He  leaned  forward,  asking,  eagerly :  "  Do  you  mean 
that?" 

"  Of  course  I  do !  "  I  answered. 

"  Ah !  "  he  cried,  "  you  don't  guess  well,  Miss  Morris, 
but  you've  the  heart  of  a  good  comrade,  and  now  I'm 
sure  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you,  and  play  Alixe  for  me?  " 

I  sprang  to  my  feet  with  a  bound.  "Alixe?"  I  cried. 
"  I  to  play  that  child  ?  oh,  impossible !  No  —  no !  I  should 
be  absurd !  I  —  I  —  I  know  too  much  —  oh,  you  under- 
stand what  I  mean!  She  is  a  little  convent-bred  bit  of 
innocence  —  a  veritable  baby  of  sixteen  years !  Dear  Mr. 
Daly  don't  you  see,  I  should  ruin  the  play  ?  " 

He  answered,  rather  coldly :  "  You  are  not  given  to 
ruining  plays.  The  part  does  not  amount  to  much.  Good 
heavens!  I  admit  it  does  not  suit  you,  but  think  of  my 
position ;  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  name  as  Alixe  for 
one  single  week,  and  on  the  second  Monday  night  Miss 
Jewett  shall  take  the  part  off  your  hands." 

"  But,"  I  whimpered,  "  the  critics  will  make  me  the 
butt  of  their  ridicule,  for  I  can't  make  myself  look  like 
an  Alixe" 

"Oh,  no  they  won't!"  he  answered,  sharply.  "Of 
course  you  won't  expect  a  success,  but  you  need  fear  no 
gibes  for  trying  to  help  me  out  of  a  dramatic  hole.  Will 
you  help  me  ?  "  And  of  course  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  swallow  hard  and  hold  out  my  hand  for  the  unwel- 
come part. 

Imagine  my  surprise  when,  on  my  way  to  rehearsal, 
I  saw  posters  up,  announcing  the  production  of  the  play 
of  "  Alixe."  I  met  Mr.  Daly  at  the  door  and  said : 
"  Why  this  play  was  always  called  '  The  Countess  of 
Somerive.' " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  know  —  but  '  Alixe  '  looks  well, 
it's  odd  and  pretty  —  and  well,  it  will  lend  a  little  impor- 
tance to  the  part !  "  —  which  shows  how  heavy  were  the 


PLAYING   "ALIXE"  357 

scales  upon  our  eyes  while  we  were  rehearsing  the  new 

Everyone  sympathized  with  me,  but  said  a  week  would 
soon  pass,  and  I  groaned  and  ordered  heelless  slippers, 
and  flaxen  hair  parted  simply  and  waved  back  from  the 
temples  to  fall  loosely  on  the  shoulders,  to  avoid  the  height 
that  heels  and  the  fashionable  chignon  would  give  me, 
while  a  thin,  white  nun's  veiling  gown,  high-necked  and 
long-sleeved,  over  a  low-cut  white  silk  lining,  buttoned 
at  the  back  and  finished  with  a  pale  blue  sash  and  little 
side  pocket,  completed  the  costume,  I  prepared  for  the 
character.  I  was  beginning  to  understand,  as  I  studied 
her,  and  shamefacedly  —  to  love! 

Oh,  yes,  one  often  feels  dislike  or  liking  for  the  creature 
one  is  trying  to  represent.  Just  at  first  I  said  to  myself, 
here  is  a  modern  Ophelia,  but  I  was  soon  convinced 
that  the  innocence  of  Alive  was  far  more  perfect  than  had 
been  that  of  Shakespeare's  weakling,  who,  through  the 
training  of  court  life,  the  warnings  of  a  shrewd  brother, 
and  the  admonitions  of  a  tricky  father,  had  learned  many 
things  —  was  ductile  in  stronger  hands  and  could  play  a 
part;  could  lead  a  lover  on  to  speech,  without  giving 
slightest  hint  of  the  hateful  watching  eyes  she  knew  were 
upon  him. 

Poor  "  Rose  of  May,"  whose  sweetness  comes  to  us 
across  the  ages!  As  the  garden-spider's  air-spun  silken 
thread  is  cast  from  bough  to  twig  across  the  path,  so  her 
fragile  thread  of  life  looped  itself  from  father  to  lover,  to 
brother,  to  queen,  and  all  the  web  was  threaded  thick  with 
maiden's  tears,  made  opalescent  by  rosy  love,  green  hope, 
and  violet  despair.  But  each  one  she  clung  to  raised  a 
hand  to  brush  the  fragile  thing  aside,  and  so  destroyed  it 
utterly.  Yet  that  tangled  wreck  of  beauty,  sweetness,  and 
"  a  young  maid's  wits,"  remains  one  of  the  world's  dearest 
possessions  —  the  fair  Ophelia! 

But  this  modern  maid  was  yet  unspotted  by  the  world. 
She  found  all  earth  perfect,  as  though  God  had  just  com- 
pleted it,  and  loved  ardently  and  without  shame,  as  the 


358  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

innocent  do  love.  For  this  pure  flower  of  crime  was  igno- 
rant, to  the  point  of  bliss,  of  evil  in  the  world  about  her. 
While  her  adored  mother  was  to  her  as  the  blessed  Madon- 
na herself. 

More  and  more  convincing,  as  I  carefully  studied  the 
part,  became  that  perfect  innocence.  Not  cold  or  re- 
served, but  alive  with  faith,  quivering,  too,  with  girlish 
mirth,  yet  innocent.  And  as  with  roots  deep  in  rankest, 
blackest  ooze  and  mud,  the  lily  sends  up  into  the  sunlit  air 
its  stainless,  white-petaled  blossom,  to  float  in  golden- 
hearted  beauty  upon  the  surface  of  the  stream,  so  all  sweet 
and  open-hearted  AlLre  floated  into  view. 

And  I  was  expected  to  act  a  part  like  that !  I  worried 
day  and  night  over  it.  Should  I  do  this,  should  I  do  that  ? 
No  —  no !  she  was  not  coy  —  detestable  word.  I  recalled 
the  best  Ophelia  I  had  ever  seen  —  a  German  actress. 
Would  she  do  for  a  model  ?  Perhaps  —  no !  she  was  mys- 
tic, strange,  aloof ! 

Oh,  dear !  and  then,  by  merest  accident,  my  mind  wan- 
dered away  to  the  past,  and  I  said  to  myself,  it  should  not 
be  so  hard.  Every  woman  has  been  innocent.  I  was  inno- 
cent enough  when  my  first  sweetheart  paused  at  my  side  to 
say  to  me  the  foolish  old  words  that  never  lose  sweetness 
and  novelty.  I  recalled  with  what  open  pleasure  I  had 
listened,  with  what  honest  satisfaction  I  accepted  his  atten- 
tion. With  a  laugh  I  exclaimed :  "  I  didn't  even  have 
sense  enough  to  hide  my  gratification  and  pride,  or  to  pre- 
tend the  least  bit"  I  stopped  suddenly  —  light  seemed  to 
come  into  my  mind.  Innocence  is  alike  the  world  over,  I 
thought ;  it  only  differs  in  degree.  I  sprang  to  my  feet ! 
I  cried  joyously :  "  I  have  caught  the  cue,  I  do  believe  — 
I  won't  act  at  all!  I'll  just  speak  the  lines  sincerely  and 
simply  and  leave  the  effect  to  Providence. 

The  scales  loosened  a  trifle  over  Mr.  Daly's  eyes  at  the 
last  rehearsal  but  one.  He  was  down  in  the  orchestra 
speaking  to  the  leader  when  I  came  to  the  end  of  the  act, 
and  the  words :  "  The  mother  whom  I  have  insulted  ? 
That  young  girl,  then,  is  my  sister  —  the  sister  whose  hap- 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS  359 

piness  I  have  stolen?  whose  future  I  have  shattered? 
What  —  is  —  there  —  left  —  for  —  me  to  live  for  ?  " 

Mr.  Daly  glanced  up,  and  said,  sharply :  "  What's  that  ? 
'er,  Miss  Morris,  what  are  you  going  to  do  there  as  the 
curtain  falls  ?  I  —  I  haven't  noticed  that  speech  before. 
Go  back  a  bit,  Mr.  Fisher,  Miss  Morant,  back  to  the 
Count's  entrance ;  let  me  hear  that  again." 

We  went  over  the  scene  again :  "  H-e-m-m !  "  said  Mr. 
Daly ;  "  you've  not  answered  my  question,  Miss  Morris. 
What  do  you  do  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  I  answered,  "  just  stare  dazedly  at 
space,  I  think  —  swaying  a  little  perhaps." 

"  I  want  you  to  fall !  "  he  declared. 

"  Oh !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  please,  don't  you  think  that 
would  be  rather  melodramatic?  If  she  could  stand  while 
receiving  that  awful  shock  about  her  mother's  shame  she 
would  hardly  fall  afterward,  from  mere  horror  of  her  own 
thoughts?" 

"  I  know  all  that,  but  let  me  tell  you  there's  always 
great  effect  in  a  falling  body.  At  any  rate  you  can  sink 
into  a  chair  —  and  so  get  the  suggestion  of  collapse." 

"  There  is  no  chair,"  I  answered,  cheerfully. 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  testily,  "  there  can  be  one,  I  sup- 
pose. Here,  boy,  bring  a  large  chair  and  place  it  behind 
Miss  Morris." 

"  Mr.  Daly,"  I  argued,  "  if  I  fall  heavily,  as  I  must, 
for  effect,  the  chair  will  jump,  and  that  will  be  funny  — 
see." 

I  fell  —  it  did  start  backward,  but  Mr.  Daly  was  equal 
to  the  emergency.  "  Take  off  the  castors  and  place  the 
chair  hard  against  the  end  of  the  piano ;  now  try ! " 

I  did ;  the  chair  was  firm  as  a  rock.  It  was  settled ;  I 
did  as  I  was  told,  and  fell  at  the  end  of  the  act  ever  after. 
And  Mr.  Daly  came  and  patted  me  on  the  back,  and  said, 
kindly :  "  Don't  fret ;  I  honestly  believe  there's  some- 
thing in  the  little  part  after  all.  That  speech  made  me 
feel  creepy." 

But  the  scales  on  my  own  eyes  were  still  firm  and  tight, 


360  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

and  all  I  could  see  in  the  play  was  the  strength,  power,  and 
passion  of  the  scenes  between  the  Count  and  Countess, 
and  the  probable  hit  of  Mr.  Louis  James  in  his  part  of  the 
Due  de  MirandoL  The  fate  of  this  play  rested  in  other 
hands  than  mine,  thank  goodness,  and  I  rejoiced  in  the 
freedom  from  responsibility  my  small  part  gave  me,  and 
planned  what  I  would  do  when  Miss  Jewett  took  Alixe. 

The  great  night  came.  Another  small  auditorium 
awaited  the  coming  of  our  patrons.  There  was  a  smell 
of  scarce  dried  paint  in  front  of  the  curtain  and  of  scrub- 
bing-soap  behind  it ;  but  all  was  bright  and  fresh,  and  the 
house  was  soon  packed  with  a  brilliant  audience.  As  the 
play  to  be  produced  had  but  a  small  cast,  and  as  Mr.  Daly 
was  anxious  that  the  entire  company  should  share  in  this 
house-warming,  he  had  invited  Mr.  John  Brougham  to 
write  a  sort  of  prologue,  giving  a  few  apt  lines  to  every 
member  of  the  company,  and  then  to  proceed  to  the  play. 
This  was  done  —  but,  alas !  Mr.  Brougham's  work  was 
utterly  unworthy  of  him.  There  was  not  one  flash  of  his 
wonderful  wit.  He  confined  himself  to  comments  upon 
the  fire,  after  this  manner ;  I  spoke,  saying : 

"  I  can't  remember  half  the  things  I  lost,  I  fear 

Mr.  Lewis  (breaking  in).  "  One  article  you  have  not 
lost " 

C.M.    "What?" 

Lewis.      '' '  L' Article  47,'  my  dear." 

Then  Miss  Jewett  came  forward  to  exclaim: 
"  My  lovely  '  peau  de  soie/ 
The  sweetest  thing  in  silk  I  ever  saw !  " 

It  was  only  spoken  one  night.  But  the  audience  was 
so  heartily  kind  to  us  all  that  many  of  us  had  tears  of 
sheer  gratitude  in  our  eyes.  We  were  in  evening  dress 
and  were  formed  in  a  crescent-like  line  from  box  to  box, 
as  the  heavy  red  curtains  parted  revealing  us,  and  Mr. 
Daly  was  very  proud  of  his  family  of  manly-looking  men 
and  gracious  women,  and  the  audience  greeted  the  as- 
sembled company  heartily.  But  that  was  nothing  to  the 
welcome  given  as  each  favorite  actor  or  actress  stepped 


DISCARDING   A   BUSTLE  361 

forward  to  speak  —  and  I  was  happy,  happy,  happy  I 
when  I  found  myself  counted  in  as  one  of  them,  with  the 
welcome  to  the  beautiful  Davenport,  Jewett,  Dietz,  to  the 
ever-favored  Mrs.  Gilbert,  no  longer,  no  heartier  than 
my  own!  And  as  I  bowed  low  and  gratefully,  for  just 
one  moment  I  could  not  help  wishing  that  I  had  an  im- 
portant part  to  play,  instead  of  the  childish  thing  awaiting 
me. 

The  prologue  being  over,  Mr.  Daly,  with  a  frowning, 
disappointed  face,  told  those  of  the  play  to  make  all  possi- 
ble haste  in  changing  their  dresses,  that  they  might  get  to 
work  and  rub  out  the  bad  impression  already  made. 

Every  important  occasion  seems  to  have  its  touch  of  the 
ridiculous,  and  so  had  this  one.  The  "  bustle  "  —  the  big 
wire  affair,  extending  to  the  bottom  of  the  skirt,  had 
reached  its  hideous  apogee  of  fashion  at  that  time,  yet 
what  possible  relation  could  there  be  between  that  teeter- 
ing monstrosity  and  grace  or  sentiment  or  tragedy? 
Surely,  I  thought,  this  girl-pupil,  brought  straight  from 
convent-school  to  country-home,  might  reasonably  be 
bustleless  —  and  I  should  look  so  much  smaller  —  so 
much  more  graceful !  But  —  Mr.  Daly  ?  Never  —  never ! 
would  he  consent  to  such  a  breach  of  propriety !  Fashion 
his  soul  loved !  He  pored  over  her  plates !  he  bowed  to 
her  mandates ! 

My  courage  having  failed  me,  when  I  hurried  to  my 
room  I  put  on  the  obnoxious  structure ;  but  one  glimpse 
of  that  camel-like  hump  on  the  back  of  Alive,  and  the 
thought  of  the  fall  in  the  chair  made  me  desperate.  I  tore 
the  mass  of  wire  off,  and  decided  to  keep  out  of  sight  till 
the  last  moment,  and  then  make  a  rush  for  the  stage. 

"Ready,  Miss  Morris?" 

"  Ready !  "  I  answered,  as  the  question  was  asked  from 
door  to  door. 

In  a  few  moments  the  call-boy  came  back  again :  "  Are 
you  ready?  Everyone  is  out  there  but  you." 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  I  said,  showing  myself  to  him,  but  still 
not  leaving  the  shelter  of  my  room ;  and  I  heard  him  say- 
ing: "Yes,  sir,  she's  all  ready,  I  saw  her." 


362  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

The  curtain  rose.  Only  a  few  lines  were  spoken  be- 
fore my  entrance.  I  dared  wait  no  longer  —  heavens ! 
no !  for  there  was  Mr.  Daly  coming  for  me.  I  gathered 
up  my  skirts  as  bunchily  as  I  could  and  ran  out;  but  I 
could  not  deceive  Mr.  Daly.  In  an  instant  he  missed  the 
necessary  earners  hump.  "  Good  heaven  and  earth !  "  he 
shouted,  "  you've  left  your  bustle !  " 

I  broke  into  a  run.  "  Wait ! "  he  cried,  loudly.  He 
dashed  into  my  open  room,  caught  the  big  bustle  up,  and 
dragging  it  like  a  great  cage  behind  him,  came  plunging 
down  the  entrance  to  me,  crying :  "  Wait  —  wait !  "  and 
waving  the  other  hand  commandingly  above  his  head. 

I  heard  my  music;  I  sprang  to  the  platform  I  had  to 
enter  from.  "  That's  me !  "  I  cried.  "  Wait !  "  he  ordered 
and  reached  out  to  catch  me.  I  evaded  his  grasp  and 
skipped  through  the  door,  leaving  but  a  fold  of  my  skirt 
in  his  hand.  I  was  on  the  stage  —  and  joy,  oh,  joy!  I 
was  without  a  bustle ! 

Mr.  Daly  did  not  like  being  laughed  at,  but  when  he 
glanced  down  and  saw  the  thing  he  was  dragging  behind 
him,  after  the  manner  of  a  baby's  tin  wagon,  he  had  to 
laugh,  and  verily  there  were  others  who  laughed  with 
him,  while  the  scandalized  dresser  carried  the  rejected 
article  back  to  a  decent  seclusion. 

There  is  no  manager,  star,  or  agent  alive  whose  experi- 
ence will  enable  him  to  foresee  the  fate  of  an  untried  play. 
A  very  curious  thing  is  that  what  is  called  an  "  actor's  " 
play  —  one,  that  is,  that  actors  praise  and  enjoy  in  the  re- 
hearsing, is  almost  always  a  failure,  while  the  mana- 
gerial judgment  has  been  reversed  so  often  by  the  public, 
that  even  the  most  enthusiastic  producer  of  new  plays  is 
apt  "  to  hedge  "  a  bit,  with :  "  Unless  I  deceive  myself, 
this  will  prove  to  be  the  greatest  play,"  etc. ;  while  the 
mistakes  made  by  actors  and  managers  both  anent  the 
value  of  certain  parts  are  illustrated  sufficiently  by  E.  H. 
Sothern,  C.  W.  Couldock,  Joseph  Jefferson  —  all  three  of 
whom  made  immense  hits  in  parts  they  had  absolutely  re- 
fused to  accept,  yielding  only  from  necessity  or  obliging- 


AN   EXPERIMENT  363 

ness,  and  to  their  own  astonishment  finding  fame  in  pre- 
senting the  unwelcome  characters.  And  to  the  misjudged 
Lord  Dundreary,  Asa  Trenchard,  etc.,  that  night  was 
added  the  name  of  Alixe. 

Refined,  intensely  modern,  the  play  was  nevertheless  a 
dread  tragedy,  and  being  French  it  almost  naturally  dealt 
with  the  breaking  of  a  certain  great  commandment.  And 
now  —  see :  we  actors  thought  that  the  stress  and  power 
of  the  play  would  be  shown  in  the  confession  of  the  wife 
and  in  the  scene  of  wild  recrimination  between  her  and 
the  Comte  de  Somerive,  when  they  met  after  eighteen 
years  of  separation.  But  see,  how  different  was  the  view 
the  public  took.  In  the  very  first  place  then,  when  I  es- 
caped the  bustle,  and  entered,  straight,  and  slim,  art  had 
so  reduced  my  usual  height  and  changed  my  coloring,  that 
until  I  spoke  I  was  not  recognized.  The  kindly  welcome 
then  given  me  calmed  my  fears,  and  I  said  to  myself :  "  I 
can't  be  looking  ridiculous  in  the  part,  or  they  would  not 
do  that !  "  And  women,  at  least,  can  understand  how  my 
very  soul  was  comforted  by  the  knowledge.  And  just 
then  a  curious  sense  of  joy  seemed  to  bubble  up  in  my 
heart.  The  sudden  relief,  the  feeling  of  irresponsibility, 
the  first-night  excitement.  Perhaps  one,  perhaps  all  to- 
gether caused  it.  I  don't  know  —  I  only  know  that  mean- 
ing no  disrespect,  no  irreverence,  I  could  have  sung  aloud 
from  the  Benedicite:  "  Omnia  opera  Domini!"  "Bless 
ye  the  Lord :  praise  him  and  magnify  him  forever !  " 

And  the  audience  accepted  the  joyous  little  maid  al- 
most from  the  first  girlish,  love-betraying  words  she  spoke, 
and  yet  —  so  sensitive  is  an  audience  at  times  —  while 
still  laughing  over  her  sweet  ignorance,  they  thrilled  with 
a  nameless  dread  of  coming  evil.  They  seemed  to  see 
the  blue  sky  darkening,  the  threatening  clouds  piling  up 
silently  behind  the  white-robed  child,  whose  perfect  inno- 
cence left  her  so  alone!  Before  the  first  act  ended  we 
discovered  that  the  tragedy  was  shifting  from  the  sinful 
mother  and  was  settling  down  with  crushing  weight  upon 
the  shoulders  of  the  stainless  child.  Indeed,  the  whole 


364  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

play  was  like  a  dramatization  of  the  awful  words :  "  The 
sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited  upon  the  children !  " 

As  the  play  went  on  and  the  impetuous  grief  of  the 
child  changed  into  proud  self-restraint,  while  her  agoniz- 
ing jealousy  of  her  adored  mother  developed,  Mr.  Daly, 
with  wide,  bright  eyes,  exclaimed :  "  I  must  have  been 
blind  —  stone-blind !  Why  Alixe  is  the  bone  and  mar- 
row, the  heart  and  soul  of  this  play !  " 

Certainly  the  audience  seemed  to  share  his  belief,  for 
it  called  and  called  and  called  again  for  that  misunderstood 
young  person,  in  addition  to  the  hearty  approval  bestowed 
upon  the  other  more  prominent  characters.  It  was  a  very 
fine  cast,  Miss  Fanny  Morant  making  a  stately  and 
powerful  Comtesse  de  Somerive,  while  Mr.  Louis  James 
gave  a  performance  of  the  Due  de  Mirandol  that  I  never 
saw  even  approached  again.  Every  other  actor  made  of 
him  either  a  fool  or  a  brute,  while  James  made  of  him  a 
delightful  enigma  —  a  sort  of  well-bred  simpleton,  rattle- 
brain, and  braggart,  who  at  the  last  moment  shows  him- 
self, beneath  all  disguise,  a  brave  and  loyal  gentleman. 

But  the  greatest  triumph  for  Alixe  followed  in  that 
act  —  the  last  —  in  which  she  does  not  speak  at  all.  She 
had  been  able  to  bear  loss,  sorrow,  renunciation,  but  as 
in  olden  times  poison-tests  were  kept,  crystal  cups  of 
such  rare  purity  they  shattered  under  contact  with  an  evil 
liquid  —  so  her  pure  heart  broke  at  contact  with  her 
mother's  shame.  Poor,  loving,  little  base-born !  Pathet- 
ic little  marplot!  Seeing  herself  as  only  a  stumbling- 
block  to  others,  she  sought  self-effacement  beneath  the 
gentle  waters  of  the  lily-pond.  And  early  in  that  last  act, 
as  her  drowned  body,  carried  in  the  arms  of  the  two  men 
who  had  loved  her,  was  laid  before  the  starting  eyes  of  the 
guilty  mother,  and  the  loving,  forgiving,  pleading  letter 
of  the  suicide  was  read  above  her,  actual  sobs  rose  from 
the  front  of  the  house.  It  was  a  heart-breaking  scene. 

But  when  the  curtain  fell,  oh!  what  a  very  whirlwind 
broke  loose  in  that  little  theatre!  The  curtain  shot  up 
and  down,  up  and  down,  and  then,  to  my  amazement,  Mr. 


ANSWERING  A  CALL  365 

Daly  signaled  for  me  to  go  before  the  curtain,  and  I 
couldn't  move.  He  stamped  his  foot  and  shouted: 
"  Come  over  here  and  take  this  call !  "  and  I  called  back : 
"  I  can't !  I  am  all  pinned  up,  so  I  can't  walk ! " 

For,  that  my  skirts  might  not  fall  away  from  my  ankles, 
when  I  was  being  carried  across  the  stage,  I  had  stood 
upon  a  chair  and  had  my  garments  tightly  wound  about 
me  and  securely  fastened,  and  unfortunately  the  pins  were 
behind  —  and  I  all  trussed  up,  nice  and  tight  and  help- 
less. 

Mr.  Daly  came  tearing  over  to  me,  and  down  he  went 

upon  his  knee  to  try  to  free  me,  but  a  muttered  "D n ! " 

told  me  that  he  could  not  find  the  pins,  and  the  applause, 
oh,  the  precious  applause  that  was  being  wasted  out  there ! 
Suddenly  he  rose  —  tossed  that  extraordinary  hat  of  his 
off,  picked  me  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  me  like  a  big 
property  doll  to  the  curtain's  side,  signaled  it  up,  and, 
with  his  arm  about  me,  supported  me  on  to  the  stage. 
Oh,  but  I  was  proud  to  stand  there  with  him,  for  in  those 
days  he  would  not  make  the  simplest  speech;  would  not 
show  himself  even.  Why,  at  the  banquet  of  his  own  giv- 
ing, he  hid  behind  a  big  floral  piece  and  made  Mr.  Oakey 
Hall  speak  for  him.  And  yet  he  had  been  pleased  enough 
with  my  work  to  bring  me  there  himself.  I  saw  his  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  and  suddenly  I  stooped  my  head  and 
kissed  it,  in  purest  gratitude. 

Afterward,  when  I  had  been  unpinned,  as  we  walked 
through  the  entrance  together,  he  said,  with  a  gleeful 
laugh :  "  This  is  the  third  and  greatest,  but  we  share  it." 

"The  third  what?"  I  asked. 

"  The  third  surprise,"  he  answered.  "  First  you  sur- 
prised the  town  in  '  Man  and  Wife ' ;  second,  you  sur- 
prised me  in  *  L' Article  47  ' ;  now  '  Alixe  '  —  the  greatest 
of  all  —  surprises  you  as  well  as  me !  " 

He  stopped,  stepped  in  front  of  me  and  asked :  "  What 
do  you  most  wish  for  ?  " 

I  stared  at  him.     He  added,  "  About  your  home,  say?  " 

And  swiftly  I  made  answer :    "  A  writing-desk ;  why  ?  " 


366 


LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 


He  laughed  a  little  and  said :  "  Good-night,  now.  Oh, 
by  the  way,  there's  a  forfeit  against  you  for  not  wearing 
your  bustle  to-night." 

But  I  was  not  greatly  alarmed  or  excited  —  not  half 
so  much  as  I  was  next  day,  about  four  o'clock,  when  some 
men  drove  up  and  insisted  upon  leaving  in  my  room  a 
handsome  inlaid  desk  that  was  taller  than  I  was.  At  first 
I  protested,  but  a  card,  saying  that  it  was  "  A  souvenir  of 
'  Alixe/  from  your  manager  and  friend,  A.  Daly," 
changed  my  bearing  to  one  of  most  unseemly  pride. 

In  the  next  ten  days  I  wrote  I  think  to  every  soul  I 
knew,  and  kept  up  my  diary  with  vicious  exactitude,  just 
for  the  pleasure  of  sitting  before  the  lovely  desk,  that  to- 
day stands  in  my  "  den  "  in  the  attic.  Its  mirror-door, 
is  dim  and  cloudy,  its  sky-blue  velvet  writing-leaf  faded  to 
a  silvery  gray,  but  even  so  it  still  remains  "  A  souvenir 
of  '  Alixe,'  from  A.  Daly." 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIRST 

Trouble  about  Obnoxious  Lines  in  "  Madeline  Morel "  — 
Mr.  Daly's  Manipulation  of  Father  X  :  In  Spite  of  our 
Anxiety  the  Audience  accepts  the  Situation  and  the  Play 
—  Mr.  Daly  gives  me  the  smallest  Dog  in  New  York. 

THE  last  and  fourth  success  that  was  granted  to 
me  under  Mr.  Daly's  management  was  in  "  Made- 
line Morel."  Of  course  I  played  in  many  plays, 
sometimes  small,  comparatively  unimportant  parts,  some- 
times, as  in  the  two-hundred-night  run  of  "  Divorce,"  I 
played  a  long,  hard-working  part,  that  was  without  any 
marked  characteristic  or  salient  feature  to  make  a  hit  with. 
But  I  only  mention  "  Madeline  Morel "  because  of  a 
couple  of  small  incidents  connected  with  its  production. 
First  of  all,  let  me  say  that  I  believe  Mr.  Daly,  who  was 
an  ardent  Catholic,  was  not  the  first  manager  to  give  bene- 
fits to  the  Orphan  Asylums,  for  I  think  that  had  long 
been  a  custom,  but  he  was  the  first  to  arrange  those 
monster  programmes,  which  included  the  names  of  every 
great  attraction  in  the  city  —  bar  none.  The  result  was 
not  merely  an  Academy  of  Music  literally  packed,  but 
crowds  turned  from  its  doors.  I  remember  what  excite- 
ment there  was  over  the  gathering  together  in  one  per- 
formance of  such  people  as  Fechter,  Sothern,  Adelaide 
Neilson,  Aimee,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barney  Williams.  I 
first  saw  the  beautiful  Mary  Anderson  at  one  of  these  ben- 
efits, as  well  as  those  two  clever  English  women,  Rose 
Coghlan  and  Jeffreys  Lewis.  Later  on,  when  I  was  under 
Mr.  Palmer's  management,  I  had  an  experience  at  a  benefit 
that  I  am  not  likely  to  forget.  I  had  consented  to  do  the 
fourth  act  of  "  Camille  "  (the  ball-room  scene),  and  when 
I  swept  through  the  crowd  of  "  guests,"  every  word  was 


368  LIFE   ON   THE  STAGE 

wiped  clean  out  of  my  memory,  for  as  they  faced  me  I 
recognized  in  the  supposed  supers  and  extras  all  the  vari- 
ous stars  —  the  leading  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  had 
had  a  place  on  the  lengthy  programme.  Working  hard, 
giving  of  their  best,  they  had  all  laughingly  joined  in  this 
gracious  whim  of  playing  supernumeraries  in  Dumas's 
ball-scene.  And  I  remember  that  Mademoiselle  Aimee 
was  particularly  determined  to  be  recognized  as  she 
walked  and  strolled  up  and  down.  Once  I  whispered  im- 
ploringly to  her :  "  Turn  your  back,  Madame !  "  but  she 
laboriously  answered :  "  Non !  I  haiv'  not  of  ze  shame 
to  be  supe  for  you,  Mademoiselle !  "  It  was  a  charming 
compliment,  but  more  than  a  bit  overwhelming  to  its  re- 
cipient. 

Well,  Mr.  Daly  having  originated,  as  I  believe,  these 
splendid  and  lengthy  benefit  performances,  was,  as  a  re- 
sult, able  to  place  a  goodly  sum  of  money  at  the  service 
of  the  Asylum  authorities,  and  naturally  he  received  warm 
thanks  from  his  Church. 

Then,  when  "  Madeline  Morel "  came  along,  with  the 
great  cathedral  scene,  we  all  stood  aghast  at  what  I  was 
called  upon  to  say  and  do.  Everyone  was  on  the  stage, 
and  nearly  everyone  whispered :  "  Sacrilege !  "  I  stopped 
stock-still,  in  sheer  fright.  Mr.  Daly  pulled  nervously 
at  the  lapel  of  his  coat  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  sharp- 
ly, "  Go  on ! "  I  obeyed,  but  right  behind  me  someone 
said :  "  And  he  calls  himself  a  Catholic !  " 

It  was  a  horrid  bit,  in  an  otherwise  beautiful  and  im- 
pressive act.  As  a  "  sister  "  who  had  served  the  "  noviti- 
ate," I  had  just  taken  the  life  vows  and  had  been  invested 
with  the  black  veil.  Then  the  wedding  procession  and 
the  Church  procession,  coming  from  opposite  sides  and 
crossing  before  the  altar,  like  a  great  "  X,"  brought  the 
bridegroom  and  the  black  nun  face  to  face,  in  dreadful 
recognition,  and  in  the  following  scene  I  had  to  drag  from 
my  head  the  veil  and  swathing  white  linen  —  had  to  tear 
from  my  breast  the  cross,  and,  trampling  it  under  foot, 
stretch  my  arms  to  Heaven  and,  with  upraised  face,  cry: 


FATHER  X.   AS   CENSOR          369 

"  I  call  down  upon  my  guilty  soul  the  thunders  of  a  curse, 
that  none  may  hear  and  live !  "  and  then  fall  headlong, 
as  though  my  challenge  had  been  accepted. 

Nothing  was  talked  of  day  or  night  but  that  scene,  and 
those  of  the  company  who  were  Catholics  were  particu- 
larly excited,  and  they  cried :  "  Why,  if  we  find  it  so  re- 
pellant,  what  on  earth  will  an  audience  think  of  it  ?  " 

Some  prophesied  hisses,  some  that  the  people  would 
rise  and  leave  the  theatre.  That  Mr.  Daly  was  uneasy 
about  its  effect  he  did  not  attempt  to  hide,  and  one  day 

he  said  to  me :  "I  think  I'll  call  on  Father  X (his 

confessor  and  friend)  to-morrow  evening,  and  get  his  — 
well  —  his  opinion  on  this  matter.  But,  unfortunately, 
rumors  had  already  reached  churchly  ears,  and  the  rever- 
end gentleman  came  that  same  day  to  inquire  of  Mr.  Daly 
concerning  them.  I  say  "  unfortunately,"  because  Mr. 
Daly  was  a  masterful  man  and  resented  anything  like  in- 
terference. Had  he  been  permitted  to  introduce  the  mat- 
ter himself,  no  doubt  a  few  judicious  words  from  the 
priest  would  have  induced  him  to  tone  down  the  objection- 
able speech  and  action :  but  the  visit  to  him  rubbed  him 
the  wrong  way  and  aroused  every  particle  of  obstinacy 
in  him.  He  described  the  play,  however,  assured  his 
old  friend  there  were  no  religious  arguments,  no  homilies 
in  it,  but  when  he  came  to  the  scene,  the  Father  shook  his 
head :  "  No  —  no !  my  son !  "  said  he,  "  I  do  not  see  how 
that  can  be  sanctioned." 

Mr.  Daly  reasoned,  argued,  almost  pleaded ;  but  though 
it  evidently  hurt  the  good  man  to  refuse,  since  he  was 
greatly  attached  to  his  son  in  the  church,  he  still  shook 
his  head  and  at  last  declared  it  was  a  serious  matter,  and 
he  would  have  to  bring  it  to  the  Bishop's  attention.  But 
that  was  just  what  Mr.  Daly  did  not  want.  "  Can  you 
not  see,  Father,"  he  said,  "  these  lines  are  spoken  in  a 
frenzy  ?  They  come  from  the  lips  of  a  woman  mad  with 
grief  and  trouble !  They  have  not  the  value  or  the  con- 
sequence of  words  spoken  by  a  sane  person ! " 

The  priest  shook  his  head.     Suddenly  Mr.  Daly  ceased 


370  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

his  arguments  and  persuasions.  After  a  little  silence,  he 
said :  "  You  cannot  sanction  this  scene,  then,  Father  ?  " 

A  positive  shake  of  the  head.  Mr.  Daly  looked  pen- 
sively out  of  the  window. 

'  Too  bad !  "  he  sighed,  "  too  bad !  " 

The  kind  old  man  sighed  too,  companionably. 

"  You  see,  if  that  scene  is  not  done,  the  play  cannot  be 
done." 

"  Dear,  dear !  "  murmured  the  priest. 

"  And  if  the  play  is  not  done,  having  nothing  else  at 
hand,  I  shall  have  to  close  the  season  with  the  old  play, 
and  naturally  that  will  mean  bad  business." 

"  Too  bad,  too  bad !  "  muttered  the  voice,  comfortably. 

"  And  if  the  season  ends  badly,  why,  of  course,  there 
can  be  no  charity  benefit." 

"  What  ?  "  sharply  exclaimed  the  erstwhile  calm  voice. 
"  No  benefit  for  our  poor  ?  Why  —  why  —  'er  —  I  - 
dear  me !  and  the  Asylum  needs  help  so  badly !  —  'er  —  a 
'  frenzy  '  you  said,  my  son  ?  Spoken  in  madness  ?  —  'er 
—  I  —  well  —  I  will  give  the  matter  serious  thought,  and 
I'll  acquaint  you  with  my  conclusion,"  and  evidently  much 
disturbed  he  retired. 

And  when  Mr.  Daly  told  me  this,  he  added,  with  a  twin- 
kle in  his  eye :  "  He  will  get  the  benefit,  surely  enough." 
And  when  he  saw  my  bewilderment,  he  added :  "  Don't 
you  see?  I  had  my  doubts  about  the  Bishop,  but  dear  old 

Father  X will  be  so  anxious  about  his  orphans  that 

he  will  make  things  right  for  me  with  him,  for  their 
sakes."  A  view  of  the  matter  that  proved  to  be  correct. 
Verily  a  clever  man  was  our  manager. 

Day  after  day  we  rehearsed,  and  day  after  day  I  hoped 
that  the  dreadful  bit  of  business  might  be  toned  down. 
At  last  my  nerves  gave  way  completely,  and  after  a  par- 
ticularly trying  rehearsal  I  rushed  to  the  managerial 
office,  and,  bursting  into  tears,  begged  hard  to  be  excused 
from  trampling  the  cross  under  foot. 

"  Surely,"  I  sobbed,  "  it's  bad  enough  to  have  to  tear 
off  the  veil  —  and  —  and  —  I'm  afraid  something  will 
happen ! " 


OBEYING   ORDERS  371 

"And,"  said  Mr.  Daly,  "to  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm 
afraid,  too !  " 

He  gave  me  a  glass  of  water,  and  waiting  a  moment 
for  me  to  conquer  my  tears,  he  went  on :  "  I'm  glad  you 
have  come  in,  I  was  just  about  sending  for  you." 

"  Oh !  "  I  interrupted,  "  you  are  going  to  cut  something 
out  ? "  But  he  answered,  gravely :  "  No !  I  shall  cut 
nothing  out!  But  look  here,  you  are  a  brave  girl,  and 
forewarned  is  forearmed,  you  know,  so  I  am  going  to 
speak  quite  plainly.  I  don't  know  how  the  public  may 
receive  that  bit  of  business;  perhaps  with  dead  silence; 
perhaps  with  hisses." 

I  sprang  to  my  feet.  "  Sit  down !  "  he  said,  "  and  lis- 
ten. You  shall  not  be  held  responsible,  in  the  slightest 
degree,  for  the  scene,  I  promise  you  that.  If  anything 
disagreeable  happens  it  shall  be  fairly  stated  that  you 
played  under  protest.  It  is,  of  course,  possible  that  the 
scene  may  go  along  all  right,  but  I  want  to  warn  you  that 
you  may  prepare  yourself  for  the  storm,  should  it  come. 
I  don't  want  you  to  be  taken  unawares  and  have  you  faint 
or  lose  your  nerve.  So,  now  whenever  you  go  over  your 
part  and  reach  that  point,  say  to  yourself :  '  Here  they 
hiss ! '  Don't  look  so  pale.  I'm  sorry  you  have  to  bear 
the  brunt  alone,  but  you  will  be  brave,  won't  you  ?  " 

And  I  rose,  and  after  my  usual  habit,  tried  to  jest,  as 
I  answered :  "  Since  you  alone  gave  me  my  opportunity 
of  being  applauded  in  New  York,  I  suppose  it's  only  fair 
that  I  should  accept  this  opportunity  of  being  hissed." 

Excited  and  miserable  I  went  home.  Faithfully  I  fol- 
lowed Mr.  Daly's  suggestion.  But  no  matter  how  often 
I  went  over  the  scene,  whenever  I  said :  "  Here  they 
hiss,"  my  face  went  white,  my  hands  turned  cold  as  stone. 
'Twas  fortunate  the  first  performance  was  near,  for  I 
could  not  have  borne  the  strain  long.  As  it  was,  I  seemed 
to  wear  my  nerves  on  the  outside  of  my  clothes  until  the 
dreaded  night  was  over. 

The  play  had  gone  finely ;  most  of  the  people  were  well 
cast.  Miss  Morant,  Miss  Davenport,  Miss  Jewett,  Miss 


372  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

Varian  especially  so;  while  Fisher,  Lewis,  Lemoyne, 
Crisp,  Clark,  and  James  did  their  best  to  make  a  success 
and  close  in  glory  the  season  that  had  been  broken  in  half 
by  the  burning  of  the  home  theatre.  The  end  of  the  third 
act  had  been  mine.  The  passionate  speech  of  renuncia- 
tion and  farewell  had  won  the  favor  of  the  house,  and 
call  after  call  followed.  As  I  had  played  the  scene  alone, 
I  should  have  been  proud  and  happy  —  should  have 
counted  the  calls  with  a  miser's  gloating  satisfaction. 
But  instead  my  blood  was  already  chilling  with  dread  of 
the  coming  act. 

"  Good  Lord,  child !  "  said  Mr.  Daly,  "  your  face  is  as 
long  as  my  arm !  Don't  anticipate  evil  —  take  the  good 
the  gods  send  you.  You  are  making  a  hit  and  you're 
losing  all  the  pleasure  of  it.  I'm  ashamed  of  you !  " 

But  he  wrung  my  fingers  hard,  even  as  he  spoke,  and  I 
knew  that  his  words  were,  what  the  boys  call  a  "  bluff." 

Then  the  curtain  was  rising.  The  cathedral  scene  won 
a  round  of  applause,  and  kneeling  at  the  altar,  as  children 
say,  "  I  scringed  "  at  the  sound.  Then  after  a  little  I  was 
coming  down  the  stage  and  the  audience,  recognizing 
Madeline  in  the  nun,  applauded  long  and  heartily,  and 
I  fairly  groaned  aloud.  After  that  the  act  proceeded 
really  with  stately  dignity,  but  to  my  terrified  eyes  it 
seemed  indecent  haste;  and  as  I  fell  into  line  with  the 
Church  procession  of  sisters,  of  novices,  of  priests  and 
acolytes,  I  felt  myself  a  morsel  in  a  kaleidoscopic  picture 
of  bright  colors,  the  churchly  purple  and  its  red  and 
white,  the  brilliant  gowns  of  the  women  of  fashion,  the 
golden  organ-pipes,  the  candles  burning  star-like  upon 
the  altar,  the  massed  flowers,  and  over  all,  giving  a  touch 
of  floating  unreality  to  everything,  the  clouds  of  incense. 

Then  suddenly,  out  of  the  bluish  haze,  there  gleamed 
the  white,  set  face,  for  love  of  which  I  was  to  sacrifice  my 
very  soul!  The  scene  was  on,  swift,  passionate,  and 
furious,  and  almost  before  I  could  realize  it,  the  dreadful 
words  had  been  spoken  —  and  with  my  foot  upon  the 
cross,  I  stood  in  a  silence  the  like  of  which  I  had  never 


NEW   YORK'S   TINIEST   DOG      373 

known  before !  I  had  not  fallen  —  stricken  absolutely 
motionless  with  terror  I  stood  —  waiting. 

In  that  crowded  building  even  breathing  seemed  sus- 
pended. There  reigned  a  silence,  like  to  death  itself! 
It  was  awful !  Then  without  changing  my  attitude  by 
the  movement  of  a  finger,  I  pitched  forward,  falling  heav- 
ily at  the  feet  of  the  dismayed  lover  and  the  indignant 
priest.  And  suddenly,  sharply  as  by  a  volley  of  musketry, 
the  silence  was  broken  by  applause.  Yes,  actually  by  ap- 
plause, and  beneath  its  noise  I  heard  a  voice  behind  me 
gasp:  "Well,  I'll  be  blest!" 

When  all  was  ended,  and  after  the  final  courtesies  had 
been  extended  and  gratefully  accepted,  there  was  an  out- 
burst of  excited  comment,  and  more  than  one  experienced 
actor  declared  that  never  again  would  they  even  try  to  an- 
ticipate the  conduct  of  an  audience.  Old  Mr.  Fisher  told 
Mr.  Daly  he  had  felt  the  rising  hiss  and  he  was  positive  it 
was  regard  for  the  woman  that  had  restrained  its  expres- 
sion. 

Mr.  Daly  patted  the  old  gentleman  on  the  shoulder  and 
answered :  "  Perhaps  —  perhaps !  but  if  for  her  sake  the 
public  has  swallowed  that  scene  one  night,  the  public  have 
got  to  go  on  swallowing  it  every  night  —  and  that's  the 
important  point  for  us." 

Very  shamefacedly  I  apologized  for  not  falling  at  the 
proper  time,  and  as  I  hurriedly  promised  to  do  so  the 
next  night,  to  my  surprise  Mr.  Daly  stopped  me  with  a 
quick :  "  No !  no !  change  nothing !  I  was  in  front,  and 
that  pause,  staring  straight  up  into  heaven,  was  tremen- 
dously effective.  It  was  as  if  God  offered  you  a  moment 
to  repent  in  —  then  struck  you  down !  Change  nothing, 
and  to-morrow  you  shall  have  your  heart's  desire." 

I  gazed  at  him  in  amazement.  He  laughed  a  bit  ma- 
liciously and  said :  "  Old  heat-registers  and  things  carry 
voices.  I  hear  many  things.  I  have  heard,  for  instance, 
about  a  man  named  Dovey  and  a  wonderful  toy  terrier 
that  weighs  by  ounces.  I  wouldn't  open  my  eyes  any 
wider,  if  I  were  you ;  they  might  stay  that  way.  Well,  will 


374  LIFE  °N   THE  STAGE 

you   show  me  the  way  to  Dovey's  by   eleven   to-mor- 
row?" 

"  But,"  I  faltered,  "  I'm  afraid  of  the  price  - 
"That's  my  affair,"  he  answered  curtly,  then  added, 
more  kindly,  "  Good-night !  you  have  behaved  well,  Miss 
Morris,  and  if  I  can  give  you  a  pleasure  —  I  shall  be 
glad." 

And  next  day  I  owned  the  tiniest  dog  in  New  York, 
who  slept  in  a  collar-box,  by  my  pillow,  that  I  might  not 
hurt  it  in  the  night.  Whose  bark  was  like  a  cambric  nee- 
dle, and  who,  within  five  minutes  after  her  arrival,  chal- 
lenged to  deadly  combat  my  beloved  Bertie,  who  weighed 
good  four  pounds. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SECOND 

I  am  Engaged  to  Star  part  of  the  Season  —  Mr.  Daly 
Breaks  his  Contract  —  I  Leave  him  and  under  Threat 
of  Injunction  —  I  meet  Mr.  Palmer  and  make  Contract 
and  appear  at  the  Union  Square  in  the  "Wicked  World." 

THE  third  season  in  New  York  was  drawing  to  its 
close,  and  by  most  desperate  struggling  I  had  man- 
aged just  to  keep  my  head  above  water  —  that  was 
all.  I  not  only  failed  to  get  ahead  by  so  much  as  a  single 
dollar,  but  I  had  never  had  really  enough  of  anything. 
We  were  skimped  on  clothes,  skimped  on  food,  indeed  we 
were  skimped  on  everything,  except  work  and  hope  de- 
ferred. When,  lo!  a  starring  tour  was  proposed  to  me. 
After  my  first  fright  was  over  I  saw  a  possibility  of  earn- 
ing in  that  way  something  more  than  my  mere  board, 
though,  truth  to  tell,  I  was  not  enraptured  with  the  pros- 
pect of  joining  that  ever-moving  caravan  of  homeless 
wanderers,  who  barter  home,  happiness,  and  digestive  ap- 
paratus for  their  percentage  of  the  gross,  and  the  doubtful 
privilege  of  having  their  own  three-sheet  posters  stare 
them  out  of  countenance  in  every  town  they  visit.  Yet 
without  the  brazen  poster  and  an  occasional  lithograph 
hung  upside  down  in  the  window  of  a  German  beer  saloon, 
one  would  lack  the  proof  of  stardom. 

No,  I  had  watched  stars  too  long  and  too  closely  to  be- 
lieve theirs  was  a  very  joyous  existence;  besides,  I  felt 
I  had  much  to  learn  yet,  and  that  New  York  was  the  place 
to  learn  it  in ;  so,  true  to  my  promise,  off  I  went  and  laid 
the  matter  before  Mr.  Daly  —  and  he  did  take  on,  but  for 
such  an  odd  reason.  For  though  he  paid  me  the  valued 
compliment  of  saying  he  could  not  afford  to  lose  me,  his, 

375 


376  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

greatest  anger  was  aroused  by  what  he  called  the  "  de- 
moralization "  my  act  would  bring  into  his  company. 

"  You  put  that  bee  in  their  bonnets  and  its  buzzing  will 
drown  all  commands,  threats,  or  reasons.  Every  mother's 
son  and  daughter  of  them  will  demand  the  right  to  star ! 
Why,  confound  it!  Jimmie  Lewis,  who  has  had  one  try 
at  it,  is  twisting  and  writhing  to  get  at  it  again  —  even 
now ;  and  as  for  Miss  Davenport,  she  will  simply  raise  the 
dead  over  her  effort  to  break  out  starring,  and  Ethel  — 
oh,  well,  she's  free  now  to  do  as  she  likes.  But  you  star  one 
week  and  you'll  see  how  quick  she  will  take  the  cue,  while 
Miss  —  oh,  it's  damnable!  You  can't  do  it!  it  will  set 
everyone  on  end !  " 

"  If  you  will  give  me  a  salary  equal  to  that  of  other 
people,  who  do  much  less  work  than  I  do,  I  will  stay  with 
you,"  I  said. 

But  he  wanted  me  to  keep  to  the  small  salary  and  let 
him  "  make  it  up  to  me,"  meaning  by  that,  his  paying  for 
the  stage  costumes  and  occasional  gifts,  etc.  But  that  was 
not  only  unbusiness-like  and  unsatisfactory  —  though  he 
undoubtedly  would  have  been  generous  enough  —  but  it 
was  a  bit  humiliating,  since  it  made  me  dependent  on  his 
whims  and,  worst  of  all,  it  opened  the  door  to  possible 
scandal,  and  I  had  but  one  tongue  to  deny  with,  while 
scandal  had  a  thousand  tongues  to  accuse  with. 

It  was  a  queer  whim,  but  he  insisted  that  he  could  not 
give  me  the  really  modest  salary  I  would  remain  for, 
though,  in  his  own  words,  I  should  have  "  three  times  its 
value."  Finally  we  agreed  that  I  should  give  him  three 
months  of  the  season  every  year  as  long  as  he  might  want 
my  services,  and  the  rest  of  the  season  I  should  be  free  to 
make  as  much  money  as  I  could,  starring.  He  told  me  to 
go  ahead  and  make  engagements  at  once  to  produce 
"  L* Article  47  "  or  "  Alixe  " —  I  to  pay  him  a  heavy  nightly 
royalty  for  each  play,  and  when  my  engagements  were 
completed  to  bring  him  the  list,  that  he  might  not  produce 
"  Alixe  "  with  his  company  before  me  in  any  city  that  I 
was  to  visit.  I  did  as  he  had  requested  me.  I  was  bound 


LITIGATION   THREATENED      377 

in  every  contract  to  be  the  first  to  present  "  L' Article  47  " 
or  "  Alixe  "  in  that  city.     I  was  then  to  open  in  Philadel- 

?hia.  I  had  been  announced  as  a  coming  attraction,  when 
received  startling  telegrams  and  threats  from  the  local 
manager  that  "  Mr.  Daly's  Fifth  Avenue  Company  "  was 
announced  to  appear  the  week  before  me  in  "  Alixe,"  in 
an  opposition  house.  Thus  Mr.  Daly  had  most  cruelly 
broken  faith  with  me.  I  went  to  him  at  once.  I  re- 
proached him.  I  said :  "  These  people  will  sue  me !  " 

"  Bah !  "  he  sneered,  "  they  can't  take  what  you  have 
not  got ! " 

"  But,"  I  cried,  "  they  will  throw  over  my  engage- 
ment!" 

His  face  lit  up  with  undisguised  pleasure.  He  thrust 
his  hand  into  the  open  desk-drawer.  "  Ah,"  he  smiled, 
"  I  have  a  part  here  that  might  have  been  written  for  you. 
It  is  great  —  honestly  great,  and  with  this  starring  busi- 
ness disposed  of,  we  can  get  at  it  early !  " 

I  rose.  I  said :  "  Mr.  Daly,  you  have  done  an  un- 
worthy thing,  you  have  broken  faith  with  me.  If  you 
produce  '  Alixe '  next  week,  I  will  never  play  for  you 
again ! " 

"  You  will  have  to !  "  he  threatened.  "  I  have  broken 
the  verbal  part  of  our  contract,  but  you  cannot  prove  it, 
nor  can  you  break  the  written  part  of  the  contract !  " 

I  repeated :    "  I  shall  play  for  you  no  more ! " 

And  he  hotly  answered :  "  Well,  don't  you  try  playing 
for  anyone  else.  I  give  you  fair  warning  —  I'll  enjoin 
you  if  you  do !  The  law  is  on  my  side,  remember." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  I  said,  "  the  law  was  not  specially  cre- 
ated for  you  to  have  fun  with,  and  it  has  an  odd  way  of 
protecting  women  at  times.  I  shall  at  all  events  appeal 
to  it  to-morrow  morning." 

Next  morning  my  salary  was  sent  to  me.  I  took  from 
it  what  was  due  me  for  two  nights'  work  I  had  done 
early  in  the  week,  and  returned  the  rest,  saying :  "  As 
I  am  not  a  member  of  the  company,  no  salary  need  be 
sent  me."  And  eleven  o'clock  found  me  in  the  office  of 
ex- Judge  William  Fullerton. 


378  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

He  declared  that  my  mind  showed  a  strong  legal  bent, 
and  he  congratulated  me  upon  my  refusal  of  the  proffered 
salary.  "  If,"  said  he,  "  you  receive  a  desirable  offer  in 
the  way  of  an  engagement,  take  it  at  once  and  without 
fear.  Mr.  Daly  will  threaten  you,  of  course,  but  I  can't 
believe  his  lawyers  will  permit  him  to  take  this  matter 
into  court.  In  attacking  you  he  will  attack  every  young, 
self-supporting  woman  in  New  York,  in  your  person. 
The  New  York  man  will  sympathize  with  you.  Public 
opinion  is  a  great  power,  and  no  manager  wishes  to  see  it 
arrayed  against  him." 

And  thus  it  happened  that  I  was  not  legally  quite  off 
with  the  old  manager  when  I  was  on  with  the  new  —  in 
the  person  of  Mr.  A.  M.  Palmer,  my  sometime  manager 
and  still  my  honored  friend.  Our  relations  were  always 
kindly,  yet  to  this  hour  I  squirm  mentally  when  I  recall 
our  first  meeting.  I  was  taking  some  chocolate  at  a 
woman's  restaurant  on  Broadway,  and  a  common  friend 
brought  the  "  Union  Square  "  manager  in  and  introduced 
him,  simply  as  a  friend,  for  whatever  my  secret  hope, 
there  had  been  no  open  word  spoken  about  business  in 
connection  with  this  interview.  But,  given  a  meeting  be- 
tween an  idle  actress  and  an  active  manager,  a  Barkis- 
like  willingness  to  talk  business  is  sure  to  develop. 

Looking  up  and  seeing  Mr.  Harriott  advancing  toward 
my  table  with  a  strange  gentleman  in  tow,  I  gave  a  ner- 
vous swallow  and  fixed  my  attention  upon  the  latter.  His 
rigid  propriety  of  expression,  the  immaculately  spotless 
and  creaseless  condition  of  his  garments  made  me  expect 
each  moment  to  hear  the  church-bells  clang  out  an  invita- 
tion to  morning  service.  Being  presented,  he  greeted  me 
with  a  gentle  coldness  of  manner  —  if  I  may  use  the  ex- 
pression —  that  sent  my  heart  down  like  lead.  Now  ex- 
treme nervousness  on  my  part  nearly  always  expresses 
itself  in  rapid,  almost  reckless  speech,  and  directly  I  was 
off  at  a  tangent,  successfully  sharing  with  them  the  fun 
of  various  absurdities  going  on  about  us ;  until,  in  an  evil 
moment,  my  eye  fell  upon  the  smug  face  of  a  young  rural 


A  MINISTER'S  SON  379 

beau,  whose  terrified  delight  in  believing  himself  a  very 
devil  of  a  fellow  was  so  ludicrously  evident,  that  one  wept 
for  the  presence  of  a  Dickens  to  embalm  him  in  the  amber 
of  his  wit. 

"  Oh !  "  I  said,  egged  on  by  one  of  those  imps  who 
hover  at  the  elbow  of  just  such  women  as  I  am,  "  can't 
you  see  he  is  a  minister's  son  ?  He  has  had  more  religion 
given  to  him  than  he  can  digest.  He's  taking  a  sniff  of 
freedom.  He  has  kicked  over  the  traces  and  he  has  not 
quite  decided  yet  whether  he'll  go  to  the  demnition  bow- 
wows entirely,  or  be  moderately  respectable.  He's  a  min- 
ister's son  fast  enough,  but  he  doesn't  know  yet  whether 
he  will  manage  a  theatre  in  New  York  or  run  away  with 
the  Sunday-school  funds ;  and  that  red-haired  young  per- 
son oppo  —  opposite "  And  I  trailed  off  stupidly,  for 

judging  by  the  ghastly  silence  that  had  fallen  upon  my 
hearers  and  the  stricken  look  upon  Mr.  Harriott's  face, 
I  knew  I  had  set  my  foot  deep  in  some  conversational 
morass.  I  turned  a  frightened  glance  upon  Mr.  Palmer's 
face,  and  I  have  always  been  glad  that  I  was  in  time  to 
catch  the  twinkling  laughter  in  his  cool,  hazel  eyes.  Then 
he  leaned  toward  me  and  gently  remarked :  "  I  am  the 
son  of  a  minister,  Miss  Morris,  and  the  manager  of  a  the- 
atre, but  upon  my  word  the  Sunday-school  funds  never 
suffered  at  my  hands." 

"  Oh !  "  I  groaned.  And  I  must  have  looked  just  as  a 
pet  dog  does  when  it  creeps  guiltily  to  its  mistress's  foot 
and  waits  to  be  smacked.  I  really  must,  because  he  sud- 
denly broke  into  such  hearty  laughter.  Then  presently 
he  made  a  business  proposition  that  pleased  me  greatly, 
but  I  felt  I  must  tell  him  that  Mr.  Daly  promised  to  get 
out  an  injunction  to  prevent  my  appearance  anywhere, 
and  he  would  probably  not  care  to  risk  any  trouble.  And 
then  there  came  a  little  squeeze  to  Mr.  Palmer's  lips  and 
a  little  glint  in  his  eye,  as  he  remarked :  "  You  accept  my 
offer  and  I'll  know  how  to  meet  the  injunction." 

And  I  can't  help  it  —  being  born  on  St.  Patrick's  Day 
and  all  that  —  if  people  will  step  on  the  tail  of  one's  coat, 


380  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

why  of  course  they  must  expect  "  ructions."  And  to  tell 
the  honest  truth,  Mr.  Palmer's  perfect  willingness  to 
fight  that  injunction  filled  me  with  unholy  glee ;  which 
combined  beautifully  with  gratitude  for  his  quick  forgive- 
ness of  my  faux  pas  —  and  I  signed  a  contract  with  Mr. 
Sheridan  Shook  and  Mr.  A.  M.  Palmer  and  was  an- 
nounced to  appear  in  "  The  Wicked  World  "  at  the  Union 
Square  Theatre,  and  I  was  pursued  day  and  night  by  slim 
young  men  with  black  curly  hair,  who  tried  to  push  folded 
papers  into  my  unwilling  hands;  while  life  behind  the 
scenes  grew  more  and  more  strenuous,  as  scene-shifters, 
property-men,  and  head  carpenters,  armed  with  braces  and 
screw-eyes,  charged  any  unknown  male  creature  that 
looked  as  if  he  could  define  the  word  injunction. 

The  night  came,  and  with  it  an  equinoctial  gale  of  per- 
fect fury.  Whether  the  people  were  blown  in  by  the 
storm  or  fought  their  way  in  by  intention,  I  can't  decide. 
I  only  know  they  were  there  and  in  numbers  sufficient 
to  crowd  the  bright  and  ruddy  auditorium.  They  were 
a  trifle  damp  about  the  ankles  and  disordered  about  the 
hair,  but  their  hands  were  in  prime  working  order,  their 
hearts  were  warm,  their  perceptions  quick  —  what  more 
could  the  most  terrified  actress  pray  for  in  an  audience? 

The  play  was  one  of  Gilbert's  deliciously  poetic  satires 
—  well  cast,  beautifully  produced,  after  the  manner  of 
Union  Square  productions  generally,  and  Success  shook 
the  rain  off  her  wings  and  perched  upon  our  banners,  and 
we  were  all  filled  with  pride  and  joy,  in  spite  of  the  young 
men  with  folded  white  papers  who  swirled  wildly  up  and 
down  Fourth  Avenue  in  the  storm,  and  of  those  other 
young  men  who  came  early  and  strove  diligently  to  get 
seats  within  reaching  distance  of  the  foot-lights,  only  to 
find  that  by  some  strange  accident  both  those  rows  of 
chairs  were  fully  occupied  when  the  doors  were  first 
throw  open.  Yes,  in  spite  of  all  those  disappointed  young 
men,  we  had  a  success,  and  I  was  not  enjoined.  Yet  there 
were  two  rather  long  managerial  faces  there  that  night. 
For  unless  my  out-of-town  managers  threw  me  over- 


"THE  GENEVA  CROSS "          381 

board,  because  of  the  trouble  about  "  Alixe,"  I  could  re- 
main in  this  charming  play  of  "  The  Wicked  World  "  but 
two  short  weeks.  And  no  manager  can  be  expected  to 
rejoice  over  the  forced  withdrawal  of  a  success. 

And  right  there  Mr.  Palmer  saw  fit  to  do  a  very  gra- 
cious thing.  After  the  first  outburst  of  anger  and  disap- 
pointment from  Mr.  Thomas  Hall  (my  Philadelphia  man- 
ager), instead  of  breaking  his  engagement  with  me,  as 
he  had  every  right  to  do,  he  stood  by  his  contract  to  star 
me  and  at  the  same  terms,  if  I  could  provide  a  play  — 
any  play  to  fill  the  time  with.  I  had  nothing  of  course 
but  the  Daly  plays,  so  my  thanks  and  utter  abandonment 
of  the  engagement  were  neatly  packed  within  the  regu- 
lation ten  telegraphic  words,  when  Mr.  Palmer  offered  me 
the  use  of  his  play,  "The  Geneva  Cross,"  written  by 
George  Fawcett  Rowe.  In  an  instant  my  first  telegram 
changed  into  a  joyous  acceptance.  I  was  studying  my 
part  at  night,  my  mother  was  ripping,  picking  out  and 
pressing  at  skirts  and  things  by  day.  Congratulating 
myself  upon  my  good  fortune  in  having  once  seen  the 
play  in  New  York,  I  went  to  Philadelphia,  and  after  just 
one  rehearsal  of  this  strange  play,  I  opened  my  starring 
engagement.  Can  I  ever  forget  the  thrill  I  felt  when  I 
received  my  first  thousand  dollars?  I  counted  it  by  twen- 
ties, then  by  tens,  but  I  got  the  most  satisfaction  out  of 
counting  it  by  fives  —  it  seemed  so  much  more  that  way. 
I  was  spending  it  with  the  aid  of  a  sheet  of  foolscap  paper 
and  a  long  pencil  until  after  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
My  mother  to  this  day  declares  that  that  was  the  very 
best  black  silk  dress  she  has  ever  owned  —  that  one  out 
of  that  first  thousand  she  means,  and  on  the  wall  here  be- 
side me  hangs  a  fine  and  rare  engraving  of  the  late  Queen 
Victoria  in  her  coronation  robes  that  I  gave  myself  as  a 
memento  of  that  first  wonderful  thousand.  That,  when 
the  other  managers  saw  that  Mr.  Hall  kept  faith  with  me, 
and  had  apparently  not  lost  by  his  action,  they  followed 
suit  and  all  my  engagements  were  filled  —  thanks  to  Mr. 
Palmer's  kindness  and  Mr.  Hall's  pluck  as  well  as  gener- 
osity. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THIRD 


We  Give  a  Charity  Performance  of  "  Camille,"  and  Are 
Struck  with  Amazement  at  our  Success  —  Mr.  Palmer 
Takes  the  Cue  and  Produces  "  Camille  "  for  Me  at  the 
Union  Square. 

f    |    ^HEN  came  the  great  "  charity  benefit/'  and  "  Ca- 
mille "  —  that  "  Ninon  de  1'Enclos  "  of  the  drama, 


1 


who,  in  spite  of  her  years,  can  still  count  lovers  at 
her  feet. 

It  is  amazing  how  much  accident  has  to  do  with  the 
career  of  actors. 

Shakespeare  says : 


"  There  's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will." 


And  heaven  knows  I  "  rough-hewed  "  the  "  Camille  " 
proposition  to  the  best  of  my  power.  I  came  hurrying 
back  to  New  York,  specially  to  act  at  the  mighty  benefit, 
given  for  the  starving  poor  of  the  city.  Every  theatre 
was  to  give  a  performance  on  the  same  day,  and  a  ticket 
purchased  was  good  at  any  one  of  them.  I  had  selected 
"  Love's  Sacrifice,"  an  old  legitimate  play,  for  that  occa- 
sion and  Mr.  Palmer  had  cast  it,  when  an  actress  suddenly 
presented  herself  at  his  office  declaring  she  had  made  that 
play  her  property,  by  her  own  exceptional  work  in  it  in 
former  years,  at  another  theatre.  Threatening  hysterics 
often  prove  valuable  weapons  in  a  manager's  office,  where, 
strangely  enough,  "  a  scene  "  is  hated  above  all  things. 

I  was  informed  of  this  lady's  claim  to  a  play  that  was 
anybody's  property,  and  at  once  withdrew  in  the  interest 
of  peace.  But  what  then  was  to  be  done  for  the  benefit  ? 

382 


"CAMILLE"   IS  SUGGESTED       383 

Every  play  proposed  had  some  drawback.  Mr.  Palmer 
suggested  '*  Camille,"  and  all  my  objections  crowding  to 
my  lips  at  once,  I  fairly  stammered  and  spluttered  over 
the  expression  of  them:  I  hated!  hated!  hated!  the 
play!  The  people  who  had  preceded  me  in  it  were  too 
great !  I  should  be  the  merest  pigmy  beside  them.  I  did 
not  think  Camille  as  vulgar  and  coarse  as  one  great 
woman  had  made  her  —  nor  so  chill  and  nun-like  as  an- 
other had  conceived  her  to  be.  And  the  critics  would 
fall  upon  me  and  joyously  tear  me  limb  from  limb.  They 
would  justly  cry  "Presumption,"  and  —  and  —  I  had  no 
clothes!  no,  not  one  stitch  had  I  to  wear  (of  course  you 
will  make  the  usual  allowance  for  an  excited  woman  and 
not  take  that  literally !)  and  then,  oh,  dear !  I'm  dreadfully 
ashamed  of  myself,  but  to  tell  the  exact  truth,  I  wept  — 
for  the  first  and  only  time  in  my  life  —  I  wept  from 
anger ! 

We  all  fumed  —  we,  meaning  Mr.  Palmer,  Mr,  Caz- 
auran,  that  ferret-faced,  mysterious  little  man,  whose 
clever  brain  and  dramatic  instincts  made  him  so  valuable 
about  a  theatre;  and  the  big,  silently  observant  Mr. 
Shook,  and  I.  Cazauran  said  he  knew  all  the  business  of 
the  play  and  could  tell  me  it,  and  began  with  certain 
things  Miss  Heron  (the  greatest  Camille  America  had 
had)  had  done,  and  I  indignantly  declared  I  would  leave 
a  theatre  before  I  would  do  as  much.  I  argued  it  was 
unnecessary.  Camille  was  not  brutal  —  she  had  associ- 
ated with  gentlemen,  members  of  the  nobility,  men  who 
were  acquainted  with  court  circles.  She  would  have 
learned  refinement  of  manners  from  them.  Such  brutal- 
ities would  have  shocked  and  driven  away  the  boyish, 
clean-hearted  Armand.  Her  very  disease  made  her  ex- 
quisitely sensitive  to  music,  to  beauty,  to  sentiment.  If 
she  repelled,  it  was  with  cynicism,  sarcasm,  her  evident 
knowledge  of  the  world.  She  allured  men  by  the  very 
refinement  of  her  vice.  And  as  I  paused  to  take  breath, 
Mr.  Shock's  bass  voice  was  heard  for  the  first  time,  as  he 
asked,  conclusively :  "  Whom  can  we  get  for  Armand  on 
such  short  notice  ?  " 


384  LIFE   ON   THE   STAGE 

I  turned  piteously  to  Mr.  Palmer :  "  The  critics  "  — 
I  gasped  and  stopped.  He  smiled  reassuringly  and  said : 
"  Don't  be  frightened,  Miss  Morris,  they  will  never  attack 
a  piece  of  work  offered  in  charity.  Just  do  your  best 
and  remember  it's  only  for  once." 

"  Dear  Lord !  only  for  once !  "  and  with  wet  cheeks  I 
made  my  way  home,  with  a  copy  of  the  detested  play  in 
my  hand.  Late  that  evening  I  was  notified  that  Mr.  Mayo 
would  play  Armand. 

I  had  not  one  dress  suited  for  the  part.  I  knew  I 
should  look  like  a  school-mistress  in  one  act  and  a  stage 
ingenue  in  another.  I  had  a  ball-room  gown,  but  it  was 
not  a  suitable  color.  I  should  only  be  correct  when  I  got 
into  my  night-dress  and  loose  wrapper  in  the  last  act. 
Actress  fashion,  I  got  my  gowns  together  first,  and  then 
sat  down  with  my  string  of  amber  beads  to  study  —  I 
never  learn  anything  so  quickly  as  when  I  have  something 
to  occupy  my  fingers,  and  my  string  of  amber  beads  has 
assisted  me  over  many  and  many  an  hour  of  mental  labor 
—  a  pleasanter  custom  than  that  of  walking  and  studying 
aloud,  I  think,  and  surely  more  agreeable  to  one's  near 
neighbors. 

The  rehearsing  of  that  play  was  simply  purgatorial. 
We  went  over  two  acts  on  one  stage  one  day  and  over 
three  acts  on  another  stage  the  next  day,  and  we  shrieked 
our  lines  out  against  the  tumult  of  creaking  winches,  of 
hammering  and  sawing,  of  running  and  ordering  —  for 
every  stage  was  filled  at  the  rear  with  rushing  carpenters 
and  painters.  Yet  those  were  the  only  rehearsals  that 
unfortunate  play  received  for  the  benefit  performance, 
and,  as  a  result,  we  were  all  abroad  in  the  first  act,  in  par- 
ticular, and  I  remember  I  spent  a  good  part  of  my  time 
in  trying  to  induce  the  handsome  young  English  woman 
who  did  Olympe  to  keep  out  of  my  chair  and  to  go  to 
and  from  the  piano  at  the  right  moment. 

The  house  was  packed  to  the  danger-point,  the  play  be- 
ing given  at  what  was  then  called  "  The  Lyceum,"  which 
Charles  Fechter  had  just  been  having  remodeled,  and 


WITH   FLYING   COLORS  385 

the  police  discovering  that  day  that  the  floor  of  the  bal- 
cony was  settling  at  the  right,  under  the  too  great  weight, 
very  cleverly  ordered  the  ushers  to  whisper  a  seeming 
message  in  the  ear  of  a  person  here,  there,  and  yonder, 
who  would  nod,  rise,  and  step  quietly  out,  returning  a 
moment  later  to  smilingly  motion  their  party  out  with 
them,  and  thus  the  weight  was  lightened  without  a  panic 
being  caused,  though  it  made  one  feel  rather  sick  and 
faint  afterward  to  note  the  depth  to  which  the  floor  had 
sagged  under  the  feet  of  that  tightly  packed  audience. 

James  Lewis  used  to  say  to  me :  "  Clara  is  the  biggest 
fraud  of  a  first-nighter  the  profession  can  show.  There 
she'll  stand  shivering  and  shaking,  white-sick  with  fright, 
waiting  for  her  cue,  and  when  she  gets  it,  she  skips  on 
and  waltzes  through  her  scene  as  if  she'd  been  at  it  for 
a  year  at  least.  No  wonder  Mr.  Daly  calls  her  his  best 
first-nighter/' 

So  at  that  first  performance  of  "  Camille,"  as  Frank 
Mayo  touched  my  icy  hand  and  burning  brow,  and  saw 
the  trembling  of  my  limbs,  as  with  fever-dried  lips  I 
waited  for  the  curtain's  rise,  he  said :  "  God !  but  you 
suffer!  I  reckon  you'll  not  act  much  to-day,  little 
woman ! "  And  a  few  minutes  later,  as  I  laughed  and 
chatted  gayly  through  the  opening  lines  of  the  play,  I  dis- 
tinctly heard  Frank  say :  "  Well,  of  all  the  sells !  Why 
confound  her,  I'm  twice  as  nervous  as  she  is !  " 

The  first  act  went  with  a  sort  of  dash  and  go  that  was 
the  result'  of  pure  recklessness.  The  house  was  delighted. 
The  curtain  had  to  go  up  twice.  We  all  looked  at  one  an- 
other, and  then  laughingly  laid  it  to  the  crowd.  The 
second  act  went  with  such  a  rush  and  sweep  of  hot  pas- 
sion between  Armand  and  Camille  that  when  De  Var- 
vllle's  torn  letter  was  cast  to  Nanine  as  Camille' s  answer, 
and  the  lovers  leaped  to  each  others'  arms,  the  house  sim- 
ply roared,  and  as  the  curtain  went  up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  Mayo  gasped  in  amazement :  "  Well,  I'm 
damned ! "  But  I  made  answer :  "  No,  you're  not  — 
but  you  will  be  if  you  hammer  my  poor  spine  in  another 


386  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

act  as  you  have  in  this.  Go  easy,  Frank;  I  can't  stand 
it!" 

The  third  act  went  beautifully.  Many  women  sobbed 
at  times.  I  made  my  exit  some  little  time  before  the  end 
of  the  act,  and  of  course  went  directly  to  my  room,  which 
was  beneath  the  stage,  and  there  began  to  dress  for  the 
ball-room  scene,  and  lo!  after  Armand  had  had  two  or 
three  calls  for  his  last  speech,  something  set  them  on  to 
call  for  Camille.  And  they  kept  at  it,  too,  till  at  last  a 
mermaid-like  creature  —  not  exactly  half  fish  and  half 
woman,  but  half  ball-gown  train  and  half  dinky  little 
dressing-sack  —  came  bobbing  to  the  curtain  side,  delight- 
ing the  audience  by  obeying  it,  but  knocking  spots  out  of 
the  illusion  of  the  play. 

In  the  fourth  act  Mr.  Mayo  played  base-ball  with  me. 
He  batted  me  and  hurled  me  and  sometimes  I  had  a  wild 
fear  that  he  would  kick  me.  Finally,  he  struck  my  head 
so  hard  that  a  large  gold  hairpin  was  driven  through  my 
scalp  and  I  found  a  few  moments'  rest  in  truly  fainting 
from  fatigue,  fright,  and  pain. 

But  it  all  went.  Great  heaven!  how  it  went!  For 
Mayo  was  a  great  actor,  and  it  was  but  intense  excitement 
that  made  him  so  rough  with  me.  Honestly  we  were  so 
taken  aback  behind  the  scenes  that  none  of  us  knew  what 
to  make  of  the  frantic  demonstrations  —  whether  it  was 
just  the  result  of  an  extreme  good  nature  in  a  great  crowd, 
or  whether  we  were  giving  an  extremely  good  perform- 
ance. 

The  last  act  I  can  never  forget.  I  had  cut  out  two  or 
three  pages  from  the  dialogue  in  the  book.  I  felt  there  was 
too  much  of  it.  That  if  Camille  did  not  die,  her  audience 
would,  and  had  built  up  a  little  scene  for  myself.  Never 
would  I  have  dared  do  such  a  thing  had  it  been  for  more 
than  one  performance.  That  scene  took  in  the  crossing 
of  the  room  to  the  window,  the  looking-glass  scene,  and 
the  return  to  the  bed. 

Dear  heaven!  it's  good  to  be  alive  sometimes!  to  feel 
your  fingers  upon  human  hearts,  to  know  a  little  pressure 


THE   CAST   OF   "CAMILLE"       387 

hurts,  that  a  little  tighter  pressure  will  set  tears  flowing. 
It  was  good,  too,  when  that  madly-rushed  performance 
was  at  last  over,  to  lie  back  comfortably  dead,  and  hear 
the  sweet  music  that  is  made  by  small  gloved  hands,  vio- 
lently spatted  together.  "  Yes,  it  was  '  werry  '  good." 

And  Mr.  Palmer,  standing  in  his  box,  looking  at  the 
pleased,  moist-eyed  people  in  front,  took  up  the  cue  they 
offered,  so  promptly  that  within  twenty-four  hours  I  had 
been  engaged  to  play  Camille  at  the  Union  Square,  as  one 
of  a  cast  to  be  ever  proud  of,  in  a  handsome  production 
with  sufficient  rehearsals  and  correct  gowns  and  plenty 
of  extra  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  "  enter  all !  "  at  the 
fourth  act.  And  more  still,  the  new  play  that  was  then  in 
preparation  was  called  in  and  packed  away  with  moth- 
balls to  wait  until  the  old  play  had  had  its  innings. 

Such  a  cast !     Just  look  at  it ! 

M.  Armand  Duval MR.  CHARLES  R.  THORNE 

Comte  de  Varville MR.  McKEE  RANKIN 

'M.  Duval  (Pere) MR.  JOHN  PARSELLE 

M.  Gustave MR.  CLAUDE  BURROUGHS 

M.  Gaston MR.  STUART  ROBSON 

Mademoiselle  Olympe Miss  MAUDE  GRANGER 

Mademoiselle  Nichette Miss  KATE  CLAXTON 

Mademoiselle  Nanine Miss  KATE  HOLLAND 

Madame  Prudence Miss  EMILY  MESTAYER 

If  Mr.  Palmer  ever  eats  opium  or  hashish  and  has  beau- 
teous visions,  I  am  sure  he  will  see  himself  making  out 
those  splendid  old  casts  again. 

Every  theatre-goer  knows  it's  difficult  for  a  stout,  ro- 
mantic actor  to  make  his  love  reach  convincingly  all  the 
way  round,  and  it  is  almost  as  difficult  for  an  actor  who 
has  attained  six  feet  of  height  to  make  his  love  include 
his  entire  length  of  anatomy.  But  Charles  R.  Thorne 
was  the  most  satisfactory  over-tall  lover  I  ever  saw.  He 
really  seemed  entirely  possessed  by  the  passion  of  love. 
"  My  God  Thorne  "  he  was  nicknamed  because  of  his  per- 


388  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

sistent  use  of  that  exclamation.  Of  course  it  did  often 
occur  in  plays  by  authority  of  their  authors,  but  whenever 
Thorne  was  nervous,  confused,  or  "  rattled,"  as  actors 
term  it,  or  uncertain  of  the  next  line,  he  would  pass  his 
hand  across  his  brow  and  exclaim,  in  suppressed  tones: 
"  My  God !  "  and  delicious  creepy  chills  would  go  up  and 
down  the  feminine  spine  out  in  the  auditorium  —  the  male 
spine  is  not  so  sensitive,  you  know.  A  fine  actor,  hot- 
tempered,  quick  to  take  offence,  equally  quick  to  repent 
his  too  hasty  words ;  as  full  of  mischief  as  a  monkey,  he 
was  greatly  beloved  by  those  near  to  him.  I  worked  with 
him  in  perfect  amity,  albeit  I  do  not  think  he  ever  called 
me  anything  but  Johnny,  the  name  Lou  James  bestowed 
upon  me  at  Daly's ;  and  his  death  found  me  shocked  and 
incredulous  as  well  as  grieved.  He  should  have  served 
his  admiring  public  many  a  year  longer,  this  most  admira- 
ble Armand. 

And  Mr.  Parselle,  what  a  delight  his  stage  presence 
was.  He  had  unction,  jollity,  tenderness,  dignity,  but 
above  all  a  most  polished  courtesy.  It  was  worth  two 
dollars  to  see  John  Parselle  in  court  dress,  and  his  en- 
trance and  salutation  as  Duval  Pere  in  the  cottage  scene 
of  "  Camille  "  was  an  unfailing  gratification  to  me  —  he 
was  a  dramatic  gem  of  great  value. 

Mr.  Stuart  Robson,  by  expressing  a  genuine  tenderness 
of  sympathy  for  the  dying  woman  in  the  last  act,  amazed 
and  delighted  everyone.  It  had  not  been  suspected  that 
a  trained  comedian,  who  hopped  about  and  lisped  and 
squeaked  through  the  other  acts,  could  lay  aside  those 
eccentricities  and  show  real  gentleness  and  sincerity  in 
the  last  —  a  very  memorable  Gaston  was  Mr.  Stuart  Rob- 
son. 

But  oh,  how  many  of  these  names  are  cut  in  marble 
now!  Poor  Claude  Burroughs!  with  his  big  eyes,  his 
water  curls,  and  his  tight-waisted  coats.  We  would  not 
have  poked  so  much  fun  at  him,  had  we  known  how  terri- 
ble was  the  fate  approaching  him. 

And  little  Katie  Holland  —  she  of  the  knee-reaching 


EVOLUTION   IN   TASTE  389 

auburn  locks,  the  gentlest  of  living  creatures  —  God  in  His 
wisdom,  which  finite  man  may  not  understand,  has  taken 
and  held  safe,  lo!  these  many  years. 

As  an  ex-votary  of  pleasure,  Prudence  is  always  more 
convincing  if  she  can  show  some  remnant  of  past  beauty ; 
so  the  statuesque  regularity  of  feature  the  Mestayer  fam- 
ily was  famous  for,  told  here,  and  the  Prudence  of  Miss 
Emily  Mestayer  was  as  handsome  and  heartless  a  harpy 
as  one  ever  saw. 

Then,  too,  there  were  the  gorgeous  Maude  Granger, 
the  ruddy-haired  Claxton,  and  the  piratically  handsome 
Rankin;  their  best  opportunities  were  yet  to  come  to  all 
three.  And  with  that  cast  Mr.  Palmer  achieved  a  great 
success,  with  the  play  that,  old  then,  shows  to  this  day 
the  most  astounding  vitality. 

The  only  drawback  was  to  be  found  in  its  impropriety 
as  an  entertainment  for  the  ubiquitous  "  young  person," 
in  the  immorality  of  Camille's  life,  which  was  much  dwelt 
upon.  Now  —  oh,  the  pity  of  it !  —  now  Camille  is,  by 
comparison  with  modern  plays,  absolutely  staid.  It  is  the 
adulteries  of  wives  and  husbands  that  the  "  young  per- 
son "  looks  unwinkingly  upon  to-day.  Worse  still  —  the 
breaking  of  the  Seventh  Commandment  no  longer  leads 
to  tragic  punishment,  as  of  yore,  but  the  thunders  that 
rolled  about  Mount  Sinai  at  the  promulgation  of  that 
awful  warning :  >:<  Thou  shalt  not  commit  adultery !  "  are 
answered  now  by  the  thunders  of  laughter  that  greet  the 
taking  in  adultery  of  false  wives  and  husbands  in  milli- 
ners' many-doored  rooms,  or  restaurants*  cabinet  particu- 
lier.  Alas,  that  the  time  should  come  that  this  passion  for 
the  illicit  should  so  dominate  the  stage! 

One  more  delightful  production  at  the  Union  Square 
Theatre  I  shared  in,  and  then  my  regular  company  days 
were  over. 


CHAPTER   FORTY-FOURTH 

"  Miss  Multon  "  Put  in  Rehearsal  —  Our  Squabble  over 
the  Manner  of  her  Death  —  Great  Success  of  the  Play 
— Mr.  Palmer's  Pride  in  it  —  My  Au  Revoir. 

THE  other  day,  in  recalling  to  Mr.  Palmer  a  long 
list  of  such  successful  productions  of  his  as  "  Led 
Astray,"  "  The  Two  Orphans,"  "  Camilla,"  "  Miss 
Multon,"  "The  DanichefTs,"  "The  Celebrated  Case," 
etc.,  he  surprised  me  by  emphatically  declaring  that  the 
performance  of  "  Miss  Multon  "  came  nearer  to  absolute 
perfection  than  had  any  other  play  he  had  ever  produced ; 
and  to  convince  me  of  that,  he  simply  brought  forward 
the  cast  of  the  play  to  help  prove  the  truth  of  his  assertion. 
As  we  went  over  the  characters  one  by  one,  I  was  com- 
pelled to  admit  that  from  the  leading  part  to  the  smallest 
servant,  I  had  never  seen  one  of  them  quite  equaled  since. 
Mr.  Palmer's  pride  in  this  production  seemed  the  more 
odd  at  first,  because  of  its  slight  demands  upon  the  scenic- 
artist,  the  carpenter,  and  upholsterer.  It  needs  just  two 
interior  scenes  —  a  busy  doctor's  study  in  London  and  a 
morning-room  in  a  French  country-house  —  that's  all. 
"  But,"  he  will  enthusiastically  cry,  "  think  of  that  per- 
formance, recall  those  people,"  and  so,  presently,  I  will 
obey  him  and  recall  them  every  one. 

The  play  had  twice  failed  in  Paris,  which  was,  to  say 
the  least,  discouraging.  When  it  was  read  to  me  I 
thought  the  tremendous  passion  of  maternity  ought  to 
touch  the  public  heart  —  others  there  were,  who  said 
no,  that  sexual  love  alone  could  interest  the  public.  Mr. 
Palmer  thought  the  French  play  had  needed  a  little  bright- 
ening; then,  too,  he  declared  the  people  wanted  to  see  the 
actual  end  of  the  heroine  (one  of  Mr.  Daly's  fixed  beliefs, 

390 


PREPARING   FOR   "MISS   MULTON"    391 

by  the  way),  therefore  he  had  Mr.  Cazauran  write  two 
additional  short  acts  —  a  first,  to  introduce  some  bright- 
ness in  the  children's  Christmas-tree  party  and  some 
amusement  in  the  old  bachelor  doctor  and  his  old  maid 
sister ;  and  a  last  for  the  death  of  Miss  Multon. 

After  brief  reflection  I  concluded  I  would  risk  it,  and 
then,  just  by  way  of  encouragement,  Mr.  Cazauran,  who 
had  always  been  at  pains  to  speak  as  kindly  of  my  work 
as  that  work  would  allow,  when  he  was  critic  on  the  dif- 
ferent papers,  declared  that  all  my  acquired  skill  and  nat- 
ural power  of  expressing  emotion  united  would  prove  use- 
less to  me  —  that  Miss  Multon  was. to  be  my  Waterloo, 
and  to  all  anxious  or  surprised  "  whys?  "  sapiently  made 
answer :  "  No  children."  His  argument  was,  that  not 
being  a  mother  in  reality,  I  could  not  be  one  in  imagina- 
tion. 

Always  lacking  in  self-confidence,  those  words  made 
my  heart  sink  physically,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  well  as  fig- 
uratively; but  the  ever- ready  jest  came  bravely  to  the  fore 
to  hide  my  hurt  from  the  public  eye,  and  at  next  rehearsal 
I  shook  my  head  mournfully  and  remarked  to  the  little 
man :  "  Bad  —  bad !  Miss  Cushman  must  be  a  very 
bad  Lady  Macbeth  —  I  don't  want  to  see  her !  " 

"What?"  he  exclaimed,  "Cushman  not  play  Lady 
Macbeth  —  for  heaven's  sake,  why  not?" 

"  No  murderess !  "  I  declared,  with  an  air  of  authority 
recognized  by  those  about  me  as  a  fair  copy  of  his  own. 
"  If  Miss  Cushman  is  not  a  murderess,  pray  how  can  she 
act  Lady  Macbeth  —  who  is  ?  "  And  the  laugh  that  fol- 
lowed helped  a  little  to  scare  away  the  bugaboo  his  words 
had  raised  in  my  mind. 

Then,  ridiculous  as  it  may  seem  to  an  outsider,  the  ques- 
tion of  dress  proved  to  be  a  snag,  and  there  was  any 
amount  of  backing  and  filling  before  we  could  get  safely 
round  it. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  wear,  Miss  Morris  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Cazauran  one  day  after  rehearsal  —  and  soon  we 
were  at  it,  and  the  air  was  thick  with  black,  brown,  gray, 


392  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

purple,  red,  and  blue !  I  starting  out  with  a  gray  travel- 
ing-dress, for  a  reason,  and  Mr.  Cazauran  instantly  and 
without  reason  condemned  it.  He  thought  a  rich  purple 
would  be  about  the  thing.  Mr.  Palmer  gave  a  small  con- 
temptuous "  Humph  "  !  and  I  cried  out,  aghast :  "  Pur- 
ple? the  color  of  royalty,  of  pomp,  of  power?  A  governess 
in  a  rich  purple?  Your  head  would  twist  clear  round, 
hind  side  to,  with  amazement,  if  you  saw  a  woman  crossing 
from  Calais  to  Dover  attired  in  a  royal  purple  traveling- 
suit" 

Mr.  Palmer  said :  "  Nonsense,  Cazauran ;  purple  is  not 
appropriate ;  "  and  then,  "  How  would  blue  —  dark  blue 
or  brown  do  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  For  just  a  traveling-dress  either  one  would  answer 
perfectly,"  I  answered ;  "  but  think  of  the  character  I  am 
trying  to  build  up.  Why  not  let  me  have  all  the  help  my 
gown  can  give  me?  My  hair  is  to  be  gray  —  white  at 
temples ;  I  have  to  wear  a  dress  that  requires  no  change 
in  going  at  once  to  cars  and  boat.  Now  gray  or  drab  is  a 
perfect  traveling-gown,  but  think,  too,  what  it  can  ex- 
press —  gray  hair,  white  face,  gray  dress  without  relief 
of  trimming,  does  it  not  suggest  the  utterly  flat,  hopeless 
monotony  of  the  life  of  a  governess  in  London?  Not 
hunger,  not  cold,  but  the  very  dust  and  ashes  of  life? 
Then,  when  the  woman  arrives  at  the  home  of  her  rival 
and  tragedy  is  looming  big  on  the  horizon,  I  want  to  wear 
red." 

"  Good  God !  "  exclaimed  Cazauran ;  and  really  red  was 
so  utterly  unworn  at  that  time  that  I  was  forced  to  buy 
furniture  covering,  reps,  in  order  to  get  the  desired  color, 
a  few  days  later. 

"  Yes,  red,"  I  persisted.  "  Not  too  bright,  not  impu- 
dent scarlet,  but  a  dull,  rich  shade  that  will  give  out  a 
gleam  when  the  light  strikes  it ;  that  will  have  the  force  of 
a  threat  —  a  menacing  color,  that  white  collar,  cuffs  and 
black  lace  shoulder  wrap  will  restrict  to  governess-like 
primness,  until,  with  mantle  torn  aside,  she  stands  a  pillar 
of  fire  and  fury.  And  at  the  last  I  want  a  night-dress 


A  GRUESOME  DISCUSSION        393 

and  a  loose  robe  over  it  of  a  hard  light  blue,  that  will 
throw  up  the  ghastly  pallor  of  the  face.  There  —  that's 
what  I  want  to  wear,  and  why  I  want  to  wear  it." 

Mr.  Palmer  decided  that  purple  was  impossible  and 
black  too  conventional,  while  the  proposed  color-scheme 
of  gray,  red,  and  blue  seemed  reasonable  and  characteris- 
tic. And  suddenly  that  little  wretch,  Cazauran,  laughed 
as  good-naturedly  as  possible  and  said  he  thought  so,  too, 
but  it  did  no  harm  to  talk  things  over,  and  so  we  got 
around  that  snag,  only  to  see  a  second  one  looming 
.up  before  us  in  the  question  of  what  was  to  kill  Miss 
Mult  on. 

I  asked  it :    "  Of  what  am  I  to  die  ?  " 

"  Die  ?  how  ?  Why,  just  die,  that's  all,"  replied  Cazau- 
ran. 

"  But  of  what?  "  I  persisted;  "  what  kills  me?  Miss 
Mutton  at  present  dies  simply  that  the  author  may  get  rid 
of  her.  I  don't  want  to  be  laughed  at.  We  are  not  in 
the  days  of  '  Charlotte  Temple  '  —  we  suffer,  but  we  live. 
To  die  of  a  broken  heart  is  to  be  guyed,  unless  there  is 
an  aneurism.  Now  what  can  Miss  Mutton  die  from? 
If  I  once  know  that,  I'll  find  out  the  proper  business  for 
the  scene." 

"  Perhaps  you'd  have  some  of  the  men  carry  knives," 
sneered  Cazauran,  "  and  then  she  could  be  stabbed  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  I  answered ;  "  knives  are  not  necessary  for 
the  stabbing  of  a  woman ;  a  few  sharp,  envenomed  words 
can  do  that  nicely  —  but  we  are  speaking  of  death,  not 
wounds ;  from  what  is  Miss  Mutton  to  die  ?  " 

Then  Mr.  Palmer  made  suggestions,  and  Miss  Morris 
made  suggestions,  and  Mr.  Cazauran  triumphantly  wiped 
them  out  of  existence.  But  at  last  Cazauran  himself 
grudgingly  remarked  that  consumption  would  do  well 
enough,  and  Mr.  Palmer  and  I,  as  with  one  vengeful 
voice,  cried  out,  Camille!  And  Cazauran  said  some 
things  like  "  Norn  de  Dieu !  "  or  "  Dieu  de  Dieu !  "  and  I 
said :  "  Chassez  a  droite,"  but  the  little  man  was  vexed 
and  would  not  laugh. 


394  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

Someone  proposed  a  fever  —  but  I  raised  the  contagion 
question.  Poison  was  thought  of,  but  that  would  prevent 
the  summoning  of  the  children  from  Paris,  by  Dr.  Os- 
borne.  We  parted  that  day  with  the  question  unanswered. 

At  next  rehearsal  I  still  wondered  how  I  was  to  die, 
hard  or  easy,  rigid  or  limp,  slow  or  quick.  "  Oh,"  I 
exclaimed,  "  I  must  know  whether  I  am  to  die  in  a  second 
or  to  begin  in  the  first  act."  And  in  my  own  exaggerated, 
impatient  words  I  found  my  first  hint  —  "  why  not  begin 
to  die  in  the  first  act?" 

When  we  again  took  up  the  question,  I  asked,  eagerly : 
"  What  are  those  two  collapses  caused  by  —  the  one  at  the 
mirror,  the  other  at  the  school-table  with  the  children  ?  " 

"  Extreme  emotion,"  I  was  answered. 

"  Then,"  I  asked,  "  why  not  extreme  emotion  acting 
upon  a  weak  heart  ?  " 

Mr.  Palmer  was  for  the  heart  trouble  from  the  first  — 
he  saw  its  possibilities,  saw  that  it  was  new,  comparatively 
speaking  at  least  —  I  suppose  nothing  is  really  new  —  and 
decided  in  its  favor ;  but  for  some  reason  the  little  man  Caz- 
auran  was  piqued,  and  the  result  was  that  he  introduced 
just  one  single  line,  that  could  faintly  indicate  that  Miss 
Mutton  was  a  victim  of  heart  disease  —  in  the  first  act, 
where,  after  a  violent  exclamation  from  the  lady,  Dr.  Os- 
borne  said :  "  Oh,  I  thought  it  was  your  heart  again," 
and  on  eight  words  of  foundation  I  was  expected  to  raise 
a  superstructure  of  symptoms  true  enough  to  nature  to 
be  readily  recognized  as  indicating  heart  disease ;  and  yet 
oh,  difficult  task !  that  disease  must  not  be  allowed  to  ob- 
trude itself  into  first  place,  nor  must  it  be  too  poignantly 
expressed.  In  brief,  we  decided  I  was  to  show  to  the  pub- 
lic a  case  of  heart  disease,  ignored  by  its  victim  and  only 
recognized  among  the  characters  about  her  by  the  doctor. 

And  verily  my  work  was  cut  out  for  me.  Why,  when 
I  went  to  the  Doctors  Seguin  to  be  coached,  I  could  not 
even  locate  my  heart  correctly  by  half  a  foot.  Both  father 
and  son  did  all  they  could  to  teach  me  the  full  horror  of 
angina  pectoris,  which  I  would,  of  course,  tone  down  for 


A   "PATIENT'    MODEL  395 

artistic  reasons.  And  to  this  day  tears  rise  in  my  eyes 
when  I  recall  the  needless  cruelty  of  the  younger  Seguin, 
in  running  a  heart  patient  up  a  long  flight  of  stairs,  that 
I  might  see  the  gasping  of  the  gray-white  mouth  for 
breath,  the  flare  and  strain  of  her  waxy  nostrils.  Then, 
in  remorseful  generosity,  though  heaven  knows  her  com- 
ing was  no  act  of  mine,  I  made  her  a  little  gift,  and  as  she 
was  slipping  the  bill  inside  her  well-mended  glove,  her 
eye  caught  the  number  on  its  corner,  and,  she  must  have 
been  very  poor,  her  tormented  and  tormenting  heart 
gave  a  plunge  and  sent  a  rush  of  blood  into  her  face  that 
ma'de  her  very  eyeballs  pinken ;  and  then  again  the  clutch- 
ing fingers,  the  flaring  nostrils,  the  gasping  for  air,  the 
pleading  look,  the  frightened  eyes !  Oh,  it  is  unforgetta- 
ble !  poor  soul !  poor  soul ! 

Well,  having  my  symptoms  gathered  together,  they  yet 
had  to  be  sorted  out,  toned  down,  and  adapted  to  this  or 
that  occasion.  But  at  least  the  work  had  not  been  thrown 
away,  for  on  the  first  night  Dr.  Fordyce  Barker  —  a  keen 
dramatic  critic,  by  the  way  —  occupied  with  a  friend  a 
private  box.  He  had  rescued  me  from  the  hands  of  the 
specialists  in  Paris,  and  I  had  at  times  been  his  patient. 
He  applauded  heartily  after  the  first  two  acts,  but  looked 
rather  worried.  At  the  end  of  the  third  act  a  gentleman 
of  his  party  turned  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  The 
doctor  threw  up  his  hands,  while  shaking  his  head  discon- 
solately. The  friend  said :  "  Why,  I'm  surprised  —  I 
thought  Miss  Morris  suffered  from  her  spine?  " 

"  So  she  does  —  so  she  does,"  nodded  Dr.  Barker. 

"  But,"  went  on  the  friend,  "  this  thing  isn't  spine  — 
this  looks  like  heart  to  me." 

"  I  should  say  so,"  responded  the  doctor.  "  I  knew 
she  wasn't  strong  —  just  a  thing  of  nerves  and  will  — 
but  I  never  saw  a  sign  of  heart  trouble  before.  But  it's 
here  now,  and  it's  bad ;  for,  by  Jove,  she  can't  go  through 
another  attack  like  that  and  finish  this  play.  Too  bad, 
too  bad ! " 

And  his  honest  sympathy  for  my  new  affliction  spoiled 


396  LIFE  ON  THE  STAGE 

his  evening  right  up  to  the  point  of  discovery  that  it  was 
all  in  the  play.  Then  he  enjoyed  the  laugh  against  him- 
self almost  as  much  as  I  enjoyed  his  recognition  of  my 
laboriously  acquired  symptoms. 

And  now  for  Mr.  Palmer's  beloved  cast. 

With  what  a  mixture  of  pleasure  and  grief  I  recall  Sara 
Jewett,  the  loveliest  woman  and  the  most  perfect  repre- 
sentative of  a  French  lady  of  quality  I  have  ever  seen  in 
the  part  of  Mathilde. 

Mr.  James  O' Neil's  success  in  Maurice  de  la  Tour 
was  particularly  agreeable  to  me,  because  I  had  earnestly 
called  attention  to  him  some  time  before  he  was  finally 
summoned  to  New  York.  His  fine  work  in  Chicago,  where 
I  had  first  met  him,  had  convinced  me  that  he  ought 
to  be  here,  and  that  beautiful  performance  fully  justified 
every  claim  I  had  made  for  him  in  the  first  place.  The 
part  is  a  difficult  one.  Some  men  rant  in  it,  some  are  sav- 
agely cruel,  some  cold  as  stone.  O'Neil's  Maurice  bore 
his  wound  with  a  patient  dignity  that  made  his  one  out- 
break into  hot  passion  tremendously  effective,  through 
force  of  contrast ;  while  his  sympathetic  voice  gave  great 
value  to  the  last  tender  words  of  pardon. 

And  that  ancient  couple  —  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
pair,  Mr.  Stoddard  and  Mrs.  Wilkins !  The  latter's  hus- 
band, belonging  to  the  English  bar,  had  been  Sergeant 
Wilkins,  a  witty,  well-living,  popular  man,  who  quite 
adored  his  pretty  young  wife  and  lavished  his  entire  in- 
come upon  their  ever-open  house,  so  that  his  sudden  tak- 
ing off  left  her  barely  able  to  pay  for  a  sea  of  crape  — 
with  not  a  pound  left  over  for  a  life-preserver  or  raft  of 
any  kind.  But  on  her  return  to  the  stage,  her  knowledge 
of  social  amenities,  the  dignity  and  aplomb  acquired  by 
the  experienced  hostess,  remained  with  her,  in  a  certain 
manner,  an  air  of  suave  and  gentle  authority,  that  was 
invaluable  to  her  in  the  performance  of  gentlewomen; 
while  the  good-fellowship,  the  downright  jollity  of  her  in- 
fectious laugh  were  the  crown  of  her  comedy  work.  Who 
can  forget  the  Multon  tea-table  scene  between  Mrs.  Wil- 


MR.  PALMER'S  CAST  397 

kins  and  Mr.  Stoddard.  How  the  audience  used  to  laugh 
and  laugh  when,  after  his  accusing  snort :  "  More  cop- 
peras !  "  he  sat  and  glared  at  her  pretty  protesting  face 
framed  in  its  soft  white  curls.  He  was  so  ludicrously 
savage  I  had  to  coin  a  name  for  him ;  and  one  night  when 
the  house  simply  would  not  stop  laughing,  I  remarked: 
"  Oh,  doesn't  he  look  like  a  perfect  old  Sardonyx?  " 

"  Yes-m !  "  quickly  replied  the  property  boy  beside  me ; 
"  yes-m,  that's  the  very  beast  he  reminds  me  of !  " 

Certainly,  I  never  expect  to  find  another  Dr.  Osborne 
so  capable  of  contradicting  a  savage  growl  with  a  tender 
caress. 

Mr.  Parselle,  as  the  gentle  old  Latin  scholar,  tutor,  and 
acting  godfather,  was  beyond  praise.  He  admitted  to 
me  one  night,  coming  out  of  a  brown  study,  that  he  be- 
lieved Belin  was  a  character  actually  beyond  criticism, 
and  that,  next  to  creating  it  as  author,  he  ranked  the  honor 
of  acting  it ;  but  there  spoke  the  old-school  actor  who  re- 
spected his  profession. 

And  those  children  —  were  they  not  charming  ?  That 
Sister  Jane,  given  so  sweetly,  so  sincerely  by  the  daughter 
of  the  famous  Matilda  Heron,  who,  christened  Helene, 
was  known  only  by  the  pet  name  Bijou,  in  public  as  well 
as  in  private  life.  And  the  boy  Paul,  her  little  brother. 
Almost,  I  believe,  Mabel  Leonard  was  herself  created  ex- 
pressly to  play  that  part.  Never  did  female  thing  wear 
male  clothes  so  happily.  All  the  impish  perversity,  all  the 
wriggling  restlessness  of  the  small  boy  were  to  be  found 
in  the  person  of  the  handsome,  erratic,  little  Mabel. 

Even  the  two  maids  were  out  of  the  common,  one  being 
played  by  a  clever  and  very  versatile  actress,  who  had 
been  a  friend  of  my  old  Cleveland  days.  She  came  to  me 
out  of  the  laughing  merry  past,  but  all  pale  and  sad  in 
trailing  black,  for  death  had  been  robbing  her  most 
cruelly.  She  wished  for  a  New  York  engagement  and 
astonished  me  by  declaring  she  would  play  anything,  no 
matter  how  small,  if  only  the  part  gave  her  a  foothold  on 
the  New  York  stage. 


398  LIFE  ON   THE  STAGE 

I  sought  Mr.  Palmer  and  talked  hard  and  long  for  my 
friend,  but  he  laughed  and  answered :  "  An  actress  as 
clever  as  that  will  be  very  apt  to  slight  a  part  of  only  two 
scenes." 

But  I  assured  him  to  the  contrary ;  that  she  would  make 
the  most  of  every  line,  and  the  part  would  be  a  stepping- 
stone  to  bigger  things.  He  granted  my  prayer,  and 
Louise  Sylvester,  by  her  earnestness,  her  breathless  ex- 
citement in  rushing  to  and  fro,  bearing  messages,  answer- 
ing bells,  and  her  excellent  dancing,  raised  Kitty  to  a 
character  part,  while  Louise,  the  smallest  of  them  all,  was 
played  with  a  brisk  and  bright  assurance  that  made  it 
hard  to  believe  that  Helen  Vincent  had  come  direct  from 
her  convent  school  to  the  stage-door  —  as  she  had. 

A  great,  great  triumph  for  everyone  was  that  first 
night  of  "  Miss  Multon,"  and  one  of  the  sweetest  drops  in 
my  own  cup  was  added  by  the  hand  of  New  York's 
honored  and  beloved  poet,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman, 
for,  all  nested  in  a  basket  of  sweet  violets,  came  a  son- 
net from  him  to  me,  and  though  my  unworthiness  was 
evident  enough,  nevertheless  I  took  keenest  joy  in  the 
beauty  of  its  every  line  —  surely  a  very  sweet  and  gra- 
cious token  from  one  who  was  secure  to  one  who  was 
still  struggling.  And  now,  when  years  have  passed,  he 
has  given  me  another  beautiful  memory  to  keep  the  first 
one  company.  I  was  taking  my  first  steps  in  the  new 
profession  of  letters,  which  seems  somewhat  uncertain, 
slow,  and  introspective,  when  compared  with  the  swift, 
decisive,  if  rather  superficial  profession  of  acting,  and 
Mr.  Stedman,  in  a  pause  from  his  own  giant  labor  on  his 
great  "  Anthology,"  looked  at,  nay,  actually  considered, 
that  shivering  fledgling  thing,  my  first  book,  and  wrote 
a  letter  that  spelled  for  me  the  word  encouragement,  and 
being  a  past-master  in  the  art  of  subtle  flattery,  quoted 
from  my  own  book  and  set  alight  a  little  flame  of  hope  in 
my  heart  that  is  not  extinguished  yet.  So  gently  kind 
remain  some  people  who  are  great.  Just  as  Tomasso  Sal- 
vini,  from  the  heights  of  his  unquestioned  supremacy  — 


AU  REVOIR  399 

but  stay,  the  line  must  be  drawn  somewhere.  It  would 
not  be  kind  to  go  on  until  my  publisher  himself  cried: 
"Halt!" 

So  I  shall  stop  and  lock  away  the  pen  and  paper  — 
lock  them  hard  and  fast,  because  so  many  charming,  so 
many  famous  people  came  within  my  knowledge  in  the 
next  few  years  that  the  temptation  to  gossip  about  them 
is  hard  to  resist.  But  to  those  patient  ones,  who  have 
listened  to  this  story  of  a  little  maid's  clamber  upward 
toward  the  air  and  sunshine,  that  God  meant  for  us  all,  I 
send  greeting,  as,  between  mother  and  husband,  with  the 
inevitable  small  dog  on  my  knee,  I  prepare  to  lock  the 
desk  —  I  pause  just  to  kiss  my  hands  to  you  and  say  Au 
revoir! 


THE   END 


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Anthony  Hopes  New  Novel 

TRISTRAM   OF  BLENT 

IT  is  always  a  question  what  Anthony  Hope  will  do 
next.  From  a  dashing  romance  of  an  imaginary 
kingdom  to  drawing-room  repartee  is  a  leap  which 
this  versatile  writer  performs  with  the  greatest  ease.  In 
his  "Tristram  of  Blent"  he  has  made  a  new  departure, 
demonstrating  his  ability  to  depict  character  by  some 
exceedingly  delicate  and  skillful  delineation.  The  plot 
is  unique,  and  is  based  upon  the  difference  of  time  of  the 
Russian  and  English  calendars,  by  which  a  marriage,  a 
birth,  and  the  ownership  of  lands  and  name  are  in  turn 
affected,  producing  complications  which  hurry  the  reader 
on  in  search  of  the  satisfactory  solution  which  awaits 
him.  The  Tristrams  are  characters  of  strong  individual- 
ities, of  eccentricities  likewise.  These,  coloring  all 
their  acts,  leave  the  reader  in  doubt  as  to  the  issue  ;  yet 
it  is  a  logical  story  through  and  through,  events  following 
events  in  carefully  planned  sequence.  A  work  of  un- 
doubted originality  based  on  modern  conditions,  "  Tris- 
tram of  Blent "  proves  that  the  author  does  not  need  an 
ideal  kingdom  to  write  a  thrilling  romance.  (12mo,  $1.50.) 

IRISH  PASTORALS 

By  Shan  F.  Bullock 

"  TRISH  PASTORALS"  is  a  collection  of  character 
A  sketches  of  the  soil — of  the  Irish  soil — by  one  who 
has  lived  long  and  closely  among  the  laboring,  farming 
peasantry  of  Ireland.  It  is  not,  however,  a  dreary  re- 
cital of  long  days  of  toil  with  scanty  food  and  no  recre- 
ation, but  it  depicts  within  a  life  more  strenuous  than 
one  can  easily  realize,  abundant  elements  of  keen  native 
wit  and  irrepressible  good  nature.  The  book  will  give 
many  American  readers  a  new  conception  of  Irish  pas- 
toral life,  and  a  fuller  appreciation  of  the  conditions  which 
go  to  form  the  strength  and  gentleness  of  the  Irish  char- 
acter. (12mo,  $1.50.) 


THE   WESTERNERS 

By  Stewart  Edward  White 

WHEN  the  Black  Hills  were  discovered  to  be  rich 
in  valuable  ores,  there  began  that  heterogeneous 
influx  of  human  beings  which  always  follows  new-found 
wealth.  In  this  land  and  in  this  period,  Stewart  Edward 
White  has  laid  the  setting  of  "The  Westerners,"  a  story 
which  is  full  of  excitement,  beauty,  pathos  and  humor. 
A  young  girl,  growing  to  womanhood  in  a  rough  mining 
camp,  is  one  of  the  central  figures  of  the  plot.  The  other 
is  a  half-breed,  a  capricious  yet  cool,  resourceful  rascal, 
ever  occupied  in  schemes  of  revenge.  Around  these  two 
are  grouped  the  interesting  characters  which  gave  color 
to  that  rude  life,  and,  back  of  them  all,  rough  nature  in 
her  pristine  beauty.  The  plot  is  strong,  logical,  and  well 
sustained ;  the  characters  are  keenly  drawn ;  the  details 
cleverly  written.  Taken  all  in  all,  "The  Westerners"  is 
a  thoroughly  good  story  of  the  far  West  in  its  most  pict- 
uresque decade.  (12mo,  $1.50.) 


BY  BREAD   ALONE 

By  I.  K.  Friedman 

MR.  FRIEDMAN  has  chosen  a  great  theme  for  his 
new  novel,  one  which  affords  a  wealth  of  color 
and  a  wide  field  for  bold  delineation.  It  is  a  story  of  the 
steel-workers  which  introduces  the  reader  to  various  and 
little-known  aspects  of  those  toiling  lives.  In  the  course 
of  the  work  occurs  a  vivid  description  of  a  great  strike. 
The  author,  however,  shows  no  tinge  of  prejudice,  but 
depicts  a  bitter  labor  struggle  with  admirable  impartiality. 
Along  with  the  portrayal  of  some  of  man's  worst  passions 
is  that  of  his  best,  his  affection  for  woman,  forming  a 
love-story  which  softens  the  stern  picture.  The  book 
will  appeal  to  students  of  industrial  tendencies,  as  well 
as  to  every  lover  of  good  fiction.  (12mo,  $1.50.) 


HERE  are  two  volumes  of  most  thrilling  tales,  gleaned 
from  the  material  which  the  age  has  brought  us. 
Each  collection  occupies  an  original  field  and  depicts  some 
characteristic  phase  of  our  great  commercial  life. 


I 


WALL  STREET   STORIES 

By  Edwin  Lefevre 

T  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  better  setting  for  a  good 
story  than  this  hotbed  of  speculation.  On  the  Ex- 
change, every  day  is  a  day  of  excitement,  replete  with 
dangerous  risks,  narrow  escapes,  victories,  defeats.  There 
are  rascals,  "Napoleonic"  rascals,  and  the  "lambs" 
who  are  shorn ;  there  is  the  old  fight  between  right  and 
wrong,  and  sometimes  the  right  wins,  and  sometimes — 
as  the  world  goes — the  wrong.  In  the  maddening  whirl 
of  this  life,  which  he  knows  so  well,  Edwin  Lefevre  has 
laid  the  setting  of  his  Wall  Street  stories.  A  number  of 
them  have  already  appeared  in  McClure's  Magazine*  and 
their  well-merited  success  is  the  cause  of  publication  in 
book  form  of  this  absorbing  collection.  (12mo,  $1.25.) 

HELD    FOR    ORDERS 

STORIES  OF  RAILROAD  LIFE 

By  Frank  H.  Spearman  ^ ,     f, 

WHILE  railroad  life  affords  fewer  elements  of  pas- 
sion and  emotion  than  the  life  of  Wall  Street,  it 
offers  however  a  far  greater  field  for  the  depiction  of 
the  heroic.  Deeds  of  bravery  are  probably  more  com- 
mon among  these  hardy,  cool,  resourceful  men — the  rail- 
road employees — than  among  any  other  members  of 
society.  * '  Held  For  Orders  "  describes  thrilling  incidents 
in  the  management  of  a  mountain  division  in  the  far  West. 
The  stories  are  all  independent,  but  have  characters  in 
common,  many  of  whom  have  been  met  with  in  McClure's 
Magazine.  Mr.  Spearman  combines  the  qualities  of  a 
practical  railroad  man  with  those  of  a  fascinating  story- 
teller, and  his  tales,  both  in  subject  and  manner  of  tell- 
ing, are  something  new  in  literature.  (12mo,  $1.50.) 


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